VIA** 


F.  M  AR.IO  N     C R-  A'WF  O RE) 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT 

William  P.  Wreden 


SPECIAL   LiniTED   EDITION 


VIA  CRUCIS 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SECOND  CRUSADE 


BY 


FRANCIS  MARION  ,  CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR  OF   "  SARACINESCA,"    "  AVE   ROMA   IMMORTAL1S, 
"CORLSONE,"    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  LOUIS  LOEB 


THE  PEOPLE'S  LIBRARY 

Issued  Monthly 
BY  THE  AMERICAN  NEWS  COMFANT 


NEW  YORK 
THE  AMERICAN  NEWS  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS'  AGENTS 
39-41  CHAMBERS  STREET 


Oornioirr,  1808, 
BT  F.  MARION  CHAWFOBD. 

COPTEIOHT,  1899, 
BT  THE  MAOMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  elect  retyped  September,  1899.  Reprinted  October, 
November  twice,  December  three  times,  1899 :  January  twice,  igoo. 
February,  March,  May,  September,  October,  1900.  Special  edition, 
June,  1901 ;  July,  1901  ;  June,  November,  1902, 


One  Hundred  and  Eighth  Thousand 


y  otto  oo  to 
L  8.  Cuihin j  k  Co.  -  Berwick  ft  Smitk 
Norwood  Mm.  U.S.A. 


TS 
1 4-5,5 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACING   PAGB 

"Perhaps  that  is  one  reason  why  I  like  you"     ...  82 

Beatrix  and  Gilbert 202 

"  Kissed  the  pale  forehead " 254 

The  Way  of  the  Cross 394 


VIA  CRUCIS 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  sun  was  setting  on  the  fifth  day  of  May,  in 
the  year  of  our  Lord's  grace  eleven  hundred  and 
forty-five.  In  the  little  garden  between  the  outer 
wall  of  the  manor  and  the  moat  of  Stoke  Regis 
Manor,  a  lady  slowly  walked  along  the  narrow  path 
between  high  rose  bushes  trained  upon  the  masonry, 
and  a  low  flower-bed,  divided  into  many  little  squares, 
planted  alternately  with  flowers  and  sweet  herbs  on 
one  side,  and  bordered  with  budding  violets  on  the 
other.  From  the  line  where  the  flowers  ended, 
spiked  rushes  grew  in  sharp  disorder  to  the  edge 
of  the  deep  green  water  in  the  moat.  Beyond 
the  water  stretched  the  close-cropped  sward ;  then 
came  great  oak  trees,  shadowy  still  in  their  spring 
foliage  ;  and  then,  corn-land  and  meadow-land,  in 
long,  green  waves  of  rising  tilth  and  pasture,  as  far 
as  a  man  could  see. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  level  rays  reddened 
the  lady's  golden  hair,  and  fired  the  softness  of  her 
clear  blue  eyes.  She  walked  with  a  certain  easy 
undulation,  in  which  there  were  both  strength  and 
grace;  and  though  she  could  barely  have  been  called 
young,  none  would  have  dared  to  say  that  she  was 
B  1 


2  VIA   CRUCIS 

past  maturity.  Features  which  had  been  coldly 
perfect  and  hard  in  early  youth,  and  which  might 
grow  sharp  in  old  age,  were  smoothed  and  rounded 
in  the  full  fruit-time  of  life's  summer.  As  the  gold 
deepened  in  the  mellow  air,  and  tinged  the  lady's 
hair  and  eyes,  it  wrought  in  her  face  changes  of 
which  she  knew  nothing.  The  beauty  of  a  white 
marble  statue  suddenly  changed  to  burnished  gold 
might  be  beauty  still,  but  of  different  expression  and 
meaning.  There  is  always  something  devilish  in 
the  too  great  profusion  of  precious  metal  —  some 
thing  that  suggests  greed,  spoil,  gain,  and  all  that 
he  lives  for  who  strives  for  wealth  ;  and  sometimes, 
by  the  mere  absence  of  gold  or  silver,  there  is  dig 
nity,  simplicity,  even  solemnity. 

Above  the  setting  sun,  tens  of  thousands  of  little 
clouds,  as  light  and  fleecy  as  swan's-down,  some  daz 
zling  bright,  some  rosy-coloured,  some,  far  to  east 
ward,  already  purple,  streamed  across  the  pale  sky 
in  the  mystic  figure  of  a  vast  wing,  as  if  some  great 
archangel  hovered  below  the  horizon,  pointing  one 
jewelled  pinion  to  the  firmament,  the  other  down  and 
unseen  in  his  low  flight.  Just  above  the  feathery 
oak  trees,  behind  which  the  sun  had  dipped,  long 
streamers  of  red  and  yellow  and  more  imperial  pur 
ple  shot  out  to  right  and  left.  Above  the  moat's 
broad  water,  the  quick  dark  May-flies  chased  one 
another,  in  dashes  of  straight  lines,  through  the  rosy 
haze,  and  as  the  sinking  sun  shot  a  last  farewell 
glance  between  the  oak  trees  on  the  knoll,  the  lady 
stood  still  and  turned  her  smooth  features  to  the 
light.  There  was  curiosity  in  her  look,  expectation, 


VIA   CBUCIS  3 

and  some  anxiety,  but  there  was  no  longing.  A 
month  had  passed  since  Raymond  Warde  had  ridden 
away  with  his  half-dozen  squires  and  servants  to  do 
homage  to  the  Empress  Maud.  Her  court  was,  indeed, 
little  more  than  a  show,  and  Stephen  ruled  in  wrong 
ful  possession  of  the  land ;  but  here  and  there  a  sturdy 
and  honest  knight  was  still  to  be  found,  who  might, 
perhaps,  be  brought  to  do  homage  for  his  lands  to 
King  Stephen,  but  who  would  have  felt  that  he  was 
a  traitor,  and  no  true  man,  had  he  not  rendered  the 
homage  of  fealty  to  the  unhappy  lady  who  was  his 
rightful  sovereign.  And  one  of  these  was  Raymond 
Warde,  whose  great-grandfather  had  ridden  with 
Robert  the  Devil  to  Jerusalem,  and  had  been  with  him 
when  he  died  in  Nicsea;  and  his  grandsire  had  been 
in  the  thick  of  the  press  at  Hastings,  with  William 
of  Normandy,  wherefore  he  had  received  the  lands 
and  lordship  of  Stoke  Regis  in  Hertfordshire;  and 
his  name  is  on  Battle  Abbey  Roll  to  this  day. 

During  ten  years  Stephen  of  Blois  had  reigned 
over  England  with  varying  fortune,  alternately  vic 
tor  and  vanquished,  now  holding  his  great  enemy, 
Robert  of  Gloucester,  a  prisoner  and  hostage,  now 
himself  in  the  Empress's  power,  loaded  with  chains 
and  languishing  in  the  keep  of  Bristol  Castle. 
Yet  of  late  the  tide  had  turned  in  his  favour ;  and 
though  Gloucester  still  kept  up  the  show  of  warfare 
for  his  half-sister's  sake, — as  indeed  he  fought  for  her 
so  long  as  he  had  breath,  —  the  worst  of  the  civil  war 
was  over;  the  partisans  of  the  Empress  had  lost  faith 
in  her  sovereignty,  and  her  cause  was  but  lingering 
in  the  shadow  of  death.  The  nobles  of  England  had 


4  VIA  CRUCIS 

judged  Stephen's  character  from  the  hour  in  which 
King  Henry  died,  and  they  knew  him  to  be  a  brave 
soldier,  a  desperate  fighter,  an  indulgent  man,  and 
a  weak  ruler. 

Finding  themselves  confronted  by  a  usurper  who 
had  no  great  talent  to  recommend  him,  nor  much 
political  strength  behind  his  brilliant  personal  cour 
age,  their  first  instinct  was  to  refuse  submission 
to  his  authority,  and  to  drive  him  out  as  an  impos 
tor.  It  was  not  until  they  had  been  chilled  and  dis 
appointed  by  the  scornful  coldness  of  the  Empress 
Queen's  imperious  bearing  that  they  saw  how  much 
pleasanter  it  would  be  to  rule  Stephen  than  to  serve 
Maud.  Yet  Gloucester  was  powerful,  and  with  his 
feudal  retainers  and  devoted  followers  and  a  hand 
ful  of  loyal  independent  knights,  he  was  still  able 
to  hold  Oxford,  Gloucester,  and  the  northernmost 
part  of  Berkshire  for  his  sister. 

Now,  in  the  early  spring  of  this  present  year,  the 
great  earl  had  gone  forth,  with  his  followers  and 
a  host  of  masons  and  labouring  men,  to  build  a  new 
castle  on  the  height  by  Faringdon,  where  good  King 
Alfred  had  carved  the  great  white  horse  by  tear 
ing  the  turf  from  the  gravel  hill,  for  an  everlasting 
record  of  victory.  Broadly  and  boldly  Gloucester 
had  traced  the  outer  wall  and  bastions,  the  second 
wall  within  that,  and  the  vast  fortress  which  was  to 
be  thus  trebly  protected.  The  building  was  to  be 
the  work  of  weeks,  not  months,  and,  if  it  were  pos 
sible,  of  days  rather  than  of  weeks.  The  whole 
was  to  be  a  strong  outpost  for  a  fresh  advance,  and 
neither  gold  nor  labour  was  to  be  spared  in  the 


VIA   CBTJCIS  5 

execution  of  the  plan.  Gloucester  pitched  his  sister's 
camp  and  his  own  tent  upon  the  grassy  eminence  that 
faced  the  castle.  Thence  he  himself  directed  and 
commanded,  and  thence  the  Empress  Maud,  sitting 
beneath  the  lifted  awning  of  her  imperial  tent,  could 
see  the  grey  stones  rising,  course  upon  course,  string 
upon  string,  block  upon  block,  at  a  rate  that  reminded 
her  of  that  Eastern  trick  which  she  had  seen  at  the 
Emperor's  court,  performed  by  a  turbaned  juggler 
from  the  East,  who  made  a  tree  grow  from  the  seed 
to  the  leafy  branch  and  full  ripe  fruit  while  the  dazed 
courtiers  who  looked  on  could  count  fivescore. 

Thither,  as  to  a  general  trysting-place,  the  few 
loyal  knights  and  barons  went  up  to  do  homage  to 
their  sovereign  lady,  and  to  grasp  the  hand  of  the 
bravest  and  gentlest  man  who  trod  English  ground  ; 
and  thither,  with  the  rest,  Raymond  Warde  was 
gone,  with  his  only  son,  Gilbert,  then  but  eighteen 
years  of  age,  whom  this  chronicle  chiefly  concerns ; 
and  Raymond's  wife,  the  Lady  Goda,  was  left  in  the 
Manor  house  of  Stoke  Regis  under  the  guard  of  a 
dozen  men-at-arms,  mostly  stiff-jointed  veterans  of 
King  Henry's  wars,  and  under  the  more  effectual 
protection  of  several  hundred  sturdy  bondsmen  and 
yeomen,  devoted,  body  and  soul,  to  their  master  and 
ready  to  die  for  his  blood  or  kin.  For  throughout 
Hertfordshire  and  Essex  and  Kent  there  dwelt  no 
Norman  baron  nor  any  earl  who  was  beloved  of  his 
Saxon  people  as  was  the  Lord  of  Stoke;  wherefore 
his  lady  felt  herself  safe  in  his  absence,  though  she 
knew  well  enough  that  only  a  small  part  of  that 
devotion  was  for  herself. 


6  VIA  CRUCIS 

There  are  people  who  seem  able  to  go  through  life, 
with  profit  to  themselves,  if  not  to  others,  by  a  sort 
of  vicarious  grace  arising  out  of  the  devotion  wasted 
on  them  by  their  nearest  and  dearest,  and  dependent 
upon  the  success,  the  honour,  and  the  reputation  of 
those  who  cherish  them.  The  Lady  Goda  set  down  to 
her  own  full  credit  the  faithful  attachment  which  her 
husband's  Saxon  swains  not  only  felt  for  him,  but 
owed  him  in  return  for  his  unchanging  kindness  and 
impartial  justice  ;  and  she  took  the  desert  to  herself, 
as  such  people  will,  with  a  whole-souled  determina 
tion  to  believe  that  it  was  all  her  due  though  she 
knew  that  she  deserved  none  of  it. 

She  had  married  Raymond  Warde  without  loving 
him,  being  ambitious  of  his  name  and  honours,  when 
his  future  had  seemed  brilliant  in  the  days  of  good 
King  Henry.  She  had  borne  him  an  only  son,  who 
worshipped  her  with  a  chivalric  devotion  that  was 
almost  childlike  in  its  blindness  ;  but  the  most  that 
she  could  feel,  in  return,  was  a  sort  of  motherly  van 
ity  in  his  outward  being  ;  and  this  he  accepted  as  love, 
though  it  was  as  far  from  that  as  devotion  to  self 
is  from  devotion  to  another  —  as  greed  is  far  from 
generosity.  She  had  not  been  more  than  sixteen 
years  of  age  when  she  had  married,  being  the  young 
est  of  many  sisters,  left  almost  dowerless  when  their 
father  had  departed  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy 
Land,  from  which  he  had  never  returned.  Raymond 
Warde  had  loved  her  for  her  beauty,  which  was  real, 
and  for  her  character,  which  was  entirely  the  creation 
of  his  own  imagination ;  and  with  the  calm,  uncon 
scious  fatuity  which  so  often  underlies  the  characters 


VIA   CKTJCIS  7 

of  honest  and  simple  men,  he  had  continued  through 
out  his  married  life  to  believe  that  his  wife's  affec 
tion,  if  neither  very  deep  nor  very  high,  was  centred 
upon  himself  and  upon  Gilbert.  Any  man  a  whit  less 
true  and  straightforward  would  have  found  out  the 
utter  emptiness  of  such  belief  within  a  year.  Goda 
had  been  bitterly  disappointed  by  the  result  of  her 
marriage,  so  far  as  her  real  tastes  and  ambitions  were 
concerned.  She  had  dreamt  of  a  court ;  she  was  con 
demned  to  the  country.  She  loved  gayety ;  she  was 
relegated  to  dulness.  Moreover  the  Lord  of  Stoke 
was  strong  rather  than  attractive,  imposing  rather 
than  seductive,  and  he  had  never  dreamed  of  that 
small  coin  of  flattery  which  greedy  and  dissatisfied 
natures  require  at  all  costs  when  their  real  longings 
are  unfed.  It  is  their  nature  to  give  little ;  it  is 
their  nature  and  their  delight  to  ask  much,  and  to 
take  all  that  is  within  their  reach.  So  it  came  to 
pass  that  Goda  took  her  husband's  loving  generosity 
and  her  son's  devotion  as  matters  foregone  and  of 
course,  which  were  her  due,  and  which  might  stay 
hunger,  though  they  could  not  satisfy  her  vanity's 
large  appetite;  and  she  took,  besides,  such  other 
things,  both  good  and  bad,  as  she  found  in  her  path, 
especially  and  notably  the  heart  of  Arnold  de  Cur- 
boil,  a  widowed  knight,  cousin  to  that  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  who  had  crowned  Stephen  king,  after 
swearing  allegiance  to  Maud.  This  Arnold,  who 
had  followed  his  great  cousin  in  supporting  King 
Stephen's  cause,  had  received  for  his  service  broad 
lands,  both  farm  and  forest,  in  Hertfordshire,  border 
ing  upon  the  hereditary  estates  of  the  Wardes ;  and 


8  VIA  CRUCIS 

in  the  turmoil  and  chaos  of  the  long  civil  war,  his 
word,  at  first  without  Raymond's  knowledge,  had 
more  than  once  saved  the  latter's  little  castle  from 
siege  and  probable  destruction.  Warde,  in  his  loyalty 
to  the  rightful  sovereign,  had,  indeed,  rather  drawn 
back  from  the  newcomer's  friendship  than  made 
advances  to  win  it;  but  Raymond  had  yielded  in  the 
end  to  his  wife's  sarcasms  and  to  his  own  sense  of 
obligation,  as  he  began  to  find  out  how,  again  and 
again,  in  the  turning  tides  of  civil  strife,  his  neigh 
bour,  though  of  opposite  conviction,  served  him  by 
protecting  his  bondsmen,  his  neat  cattle,  and  his 
growing  crops  from  pillage  and  destruction.  Ray 
mond  did  not  trace  such  acts  of  neighbourly  kind 
ness  to  the  day  when,  hawking  with  his  lady  and 
little  Gilbert,  then  hardly  big  enough  to  sit  upon  a 
horse,  they  had  been  overtaken  by  a  winter  storm 
not  far  from  Arnold's  lands,  and  when  Arnold  him 
self,  returning  from  a  journey,  had  bidden  them 
take  shelter  in  a  small  outlying  manor  house,  where 
he  was  to  spend  the  night,  and  whither  his  servants 
had  brought  his  little  daughter  Beatrix  to  meet  her 
father.  Raymond  had  accepted  the  offer  for  his 
wife's  sake,  and  the  two  families  had  made  acquaint 
ance  on  that  evening,  by  the  blazing  fire  in  the 
little  hall. 

Before  supper,  the  men  had  talked  together  with 
that  sort  of  cheery  confidence  which  exists  almost 
before  the  first  meeting  between  men  who  are  neigh 
bours  and  of  the  same  rank,  and  the  Lady  Goda  had 
put  in  a  word  now  and  then,  as  she  sat  in  the  high- 
backed  chair,  drying  the  bright  blue  cloth  skirt  of  her 


VIA    CRTJCIS  9 

gown  before  the  crackling  logs  ;  and  meanwhile,  too, 
young  Gilbert,  who  had  his  mother's  hair  and  his 
father's  deep-set  eyes,  walked  round  and  round  the 
solemn  little  dark-faced  girl,  who  sat  upon  a  settle 
by  herself,  clad  in  a  green  cloth  dress  which  was  cut 
in  the  fashion  for  grown-up  women,  and  having  two 
short  stiff  plaits  of  black  hair  hanging  down  behind 
the  small  coverchief  that  was  tied  under  her  fat  chin. 
And  as  the  boy  in  his  scarlet  doublet  and  green 
cloth  hose  walked  backward  and  forward,  stop 
ping,  moving  away,  then  standing  still  to  show  off 
his  small  hunting-knife,  drawing  it  half  out  of  its 
sheath,  and  driving  it  home  again  with  a  smart  push 
of  the  palm  of  his  hand,  the  little  girl's  round  black 
eyes  followed  all  his  movements  with  silent  and  grave 
curiosity.  She  was  brotherless,  he  had  no  sisters, 
and  both  had  been  brought  up  without  companions, 
so  that  each  was  an  absolute  novelty  to  the  other ; 
and  when  Gilbert  threw  his  round  cap,  spinning 
on  itself,  up  to  the  brown  rafters  of  the  dim  fire-lit 
chamber  and  caught  it  upon  one  finger  as  it  came 
down  again,  the  little  Beatrix  laughed  aloud.  This 
seemed  to  him  nothing  less  than  an  invitation,  and  he 
immediately  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  settle,  holding 
his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  began  to  ask  her  how  she 
was  called,  and  whether  she  lived  in  that  place  all 
the  year  round;  and  before  long  they  were  good 
friends,  and  were  talking  of  plovers'  eggs  and  king 
fishers'  nests,  and  of  the  time  when  they  should  each 
have  a  hawk  of  their  own,  and  a  horse,  and  each  a 
hound  and  a  footman. 

When   supper    was    over    and   a    serving-woman 


10  VIA   CRUCIS 

had  taken  the  little  Beatrix  away  to  sleep  in  the 
women's  upper  chamber,  and  when  the  steward  of 
the  manor  farm,  and  his  wife  and  the  retainers  and 
servants,  who  had  eaten  and  drunk  their  fill  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  hall,  were  all  gone  to  their  quarters 
in  the  outbuildings,  —  and  when  a  bed  had  been  made 
for  Gilbert,  in  a  corner  near  the  great  chimney- 
piece,  by  filling  with  fresh  straw  a  large  linen  sack 
which  was  laid  upon  the  chest  in  which  the  bag  was 
kept  during  the  daytime,  and  was  then  covered  with 
a  fine  Holland  sheet  and  two  thick  woollen  blankets, 
under  which  the  boy  was  asleep  in  five  minutes,  — 
then  the  two  knights  and  the  lady  were  left  to  them 
selves  in  their  great  carved  chairs  before  the  fire. 
But  the  Lord  of  Stoke,  who  was  a  strong  man  and 
heavy,  and  had  eaten  well  and  had  drunk  both  ale 
and  Gascony  wine  at  supper,  stretched  out  his  feet 
to  the  fire-dogs,  and  rested  his  elbows  upon  the  arms 
of  his  chair,  and  matched  his  hands  together  by 
the  thumbs  and  by  the  forefingers,  and  by  the  other 
fingers,  one  by  one;  and  little  by  little  the  musical, 
false  voice  of  his  lady,  and  the  singularly  gentle 
and  unctuous  tones  of  his  host,  Arnold  de  Curboil, 
blended  together  and  lost  themselves,  just  as  the 
gates  of  dreamland  softly  closed  behind  him. 

The  Lady  Goda,  who  had  been  far  too  tired  to 
think  of  riding  home  that  night,  was  not  in  the  least 
sleepy,  and,  moreover,  she  was  profoundly  interested 
in  what  Sir  Arnold  had  to  say,  while  he  was  much  too 
witty  to  say  anything  which  should  not  interest  her. 
He  talked  of  the  court,  and  of  the  fashions,  and  of 
great  people  whom  he  knew  intimately  and  whom 


VIA  CKUCIS  11 

the  Lady  Goda  longed  to  know;  and  from  time  to 
time  he  managed  to  convey  to  her  the  idea  that  the 
beauties  of  King  Stephen's  court  would  stand  in  a 
poor  comparison  with  her,  if  her  husband  could  be 
induced  to  give  up  his  old-fashioned  prejudices  and 
his  allegiance  to  the  Empress  Maud.  Lady  Goda 
had  once  been  presented  to  the  Empress,  who  had 
paid  very  little  attention  to  her,  compared  with  the 
interest  she  showed  in  Sir  Raymond  himself.  At  the 
feast  which  had  followed  the  formal  audience,  she 
had  been  placed  between  a  stout  German  widow  lady 
and  an  Italian  abbot  from  Normandy,  who  had  talked 
to  each  other  across  her,  in  dog-Latin,  in  a  way 
which  had  seemed  to  her  very  unmannerly;  and  the 
German  lady  had  eaten  pieces  of  game-pie  with  her 
knife,  instead  of  using  her  fingers,  as  a  lady  should, 
before  forks  were  invented.  On  the  following  morn 
ing  the  Lady  Goda  had  been  taken  away  again  by 
her  husband,  and  her  experiences  of  court  life  had 
been  brought  to  an  abrupt  close.  If  the  great  Earl 
Robert  of  Gloucester  had  deigned  to  bestow  a  word 
upon  her,  instead  of  looking  through  her  with  his 
beautiful  calm  blue  eyes  at  an  imaginary  land 
scape  beyond,  her  impressions  of  life  at  the  Em 
press's  court  might  have  been  very  different,  and  she 
might  ever  afterwards  have  approved  her  husband's 
loyalty.  But  although  she  had  bestowed  unusual 
pains  upon  the  arrangement  of  her  splendid  golden 
hair,  and  had  boxed  the  ears  of  a  clumsy  tirewoman 
with  so  much  vivacity  that  her  own  hand  ached  per 
ceptibly  three  hours  afterwards,  yet  the  great  earl 
paid  no  more  attention  to  her  than  if  she  had  been 


12  VIA  CRUCIS 

a  Saxon  dairy-maid.  These  things,  combined  with 
the  fact  that  she  unexpectedly  found  the  ladies  of 
the  Empress's  court  wearing  pocket  sleeves,  shaped 
like  overgrown  mandolins,  and  almost  dragging  on 
the  rushes  as  they  walked,  whereas  her  own  Avere  of 
the  old-fashioned  open  cut,  had  filled  her  soul  with 
bitterness  against  the  legitimate  heir  to  King  Henry's 
throne  and  had  made  the  one-sided  barrier  between 
herself  and  her  husband  —  which  she  could  see  so 
plainly,  but  which  was  quite  invisible  to  him  —  finally 
and  utterly  impassable.  He  not  only  bored  her  him 
self,  but  he  had  given  her  over  to  be  bored  by  others, 
and  from  that  day  no  such  thing  as  even  the  mildest 
affection  for  him  was  to  be  thought  of  on  her  side. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  she  listened  with  breath 
less  interest  to  all  Sir  Arnold  told  her,  and  watched 
with  delight  the  changing  expression  of  his  smooth 
face,  contrasted  at  every  point  with  the  bold,  grave 
features  of  the  Lord  of  Stoke,  solemnly  asleep  beside 
her.  And  Curboil,  on  his  side,  was  not  only  flattered, 
as  every  man  is  when  a  beautiful  woman  listens  to 
him  long  and  intently,  but  he  saw  also  that  her 
beauty  was  of  an  unusual  and  very  striking  kind. 
Too  straight,  too  cold,  too  much  like  marble,  yet 
with  hair  almost  too  golden  and  a  mouth  like  a 
small  red  wound ;  too  much  of  every  quality  to 
be  natural,  and  yet  without  fault  or  flaw,  and  too 
vivid  not  to  delight  the  tired  taste  of  the  man  of 
pleasure  of  that  day,  who  had  seen  the  world  from 
London  to  Rome  and  from  Rome  to  the  imperial 
court  of  Henry  the  Fifth. 

And  she,  on  her  side,  saw  in  him  the  type  to  which 


VIA   CBUCIS  13 

she  would  naturally  have  been  attracted  had  she 
been  perfectly  free  to  make  her  choice  of  a  husband. 
Contrasted  with  the  man  of  action,  of  few  words,  of 
few  feelings  and  strong  ones,  she  saw  the  many- 
sided  man  of  the  world,  whose  mere  versatility  was 
a  charm,  and  the  thought  of  whose  manifold  expe 
riences  had  in  it  a  sort  of  mysterious  fascination. 
Arnold  de  Curboil  was  above  all  a  man  of  tact  and 
light  touch,  accustomed  to  the  society  of  women 
and  skilled  in  the  art  of  appealing  to  that  unsatisfied 
vanity  which  is  the  basis  of  most  imperfect  feminine 
characters.  There  was  nothing  weak  about  him, 
and  he  was  at  least  as  brave  as  most  men,  besides 
being  more  skilful  than  the  majority  in  the  use  of 
weapons.  His  small,  well-shaped,  olive-tinted  hand 
could  drive  a  sword  with  a  quicker  thrust  than 
Raymond  Warde's,  and  with  as  sure  an  aim,  though 
there  might  not  be  the  same  massive  strength 
behind  it.  In  the  saddle  he  had  not  the  terrible 
grip  of  the  knee  which  could  make  a  strong  horse 
shrink  and  quiver  and  groan  aloud;  but  few  riders 
of  his  day  were  more  profoundly  skilled  in  the  art 
of  showing  a  poor  mount  to  good  advantage,  and  of 
teaching  a  good  one  to  use  his  own  powers  to  the 
utmost.  When  Warde  had  ridden  a  horse  six 
months,  the  beast  was  generally  gone  in  the  fore 
quarters,  and  broken-winded,  if  not  dead  outright ; 
but  in  the  same  time  Curboil  would  have  ridden 
the  same  horse  twice  as  far,  and  would  have  doubled 
his  value.  And  so  in  many  other  ways,  with  equal 
chances,  the  one  seemed  to  squander  where  the  other 
turned  everything  to  his  own  advantage.  Standing 


14  VIA   CRUCIS 

Sir  Arnold  was  scarcely  of  medium  height,  but 
seated,  he  was  not  noticeably  small ;  and,  like  many 
men  of  short  stature,  he  bestowed  a  constant  and 
thoughtful  care  upon  his  person  and  appearance, 
which  resulted  in  a  sort  of  permanent  compensation. 
His  dark  beard  was  cut  to  a  point,  and  so  carefully 
trimmed  as  to  remind  one  of  those  smoothly  clipped 
trees  representing  peacocks  and  dragons,  which  have 
been  the  delight  of  the  Italian  gardener  ever  since 
the  days  of  Pliny.  He  wore  his  hair  neither  long 
nor  short,  but  the  silky  locks  were  carefully  parted 
in  the  middle  and  smoothed  back  in  rich  dark  waves. 
There  was  something  almost  irritating  in  their 
unnatural  smoothness,  in  the  perfect  transparency  of 
the  man's  healthy  olive  complexion,  in  the  mouse 
like  sleekness  of  his  long  arching  eyebrows,  and  in 
the  perfect  self-satisfaction  and  confidence  of  his 
rather  insolent  reddish-brown  eyes.  His  straight 
round  throat,  well  proportioned,  well  set  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  transparently  smooth  as  his  own 
forehead,  was  thrown  into  relief  by  the  exquisite 
gold  embroidery  that  edged  the  shirt  of  finest 
Flemish  linen.  He  wore  a  close-fitting  tunic  of 
fine  scarlet  cloth,  with  tight  sleeves  slightly  turned 
back  to  display  his  shapely  wrists ;  it  was  gathered 
to  his  waist  by  a  splendid  sword-belt,  made  of 
linked  and  enamelled  plates  of  silver,  the  work 
of  a  skilled  Byzantine  artist,  each  plate  representing 
in  rich  colours  a  little  scene  from  the  life  and  passion 
of  Christ.  The  straight  cross-hilted  sword  stood 
leaning  against  the  wall  near  the  great  chimney- 
piece,  but  the  dagger  was  still  at  the  belt,  a  marvel 


VIA   CRUCIS  15 

of  workmanship,  a  wonder  of  temper,  a  triumph  of 
Eastern  art,  when  almost  all  art  was  Eastern.  The 
hilt  of  solid  gold,  eight-sided  and  notched,  was  cross- 
chiselled  in  a  delicate  but  deep  design,  picked  out  with 
rough  gems,  set  with  cunning  irregularity ,;  the  guard, 
a  hollowed  disk  of  steel,  graven  and  inlaid  in  gold 
with  Kufic  characters  ;  the  blade,  as  long  as  a  man's 
arm  from  the  elbow  to  the  wrist- joint,  forged  of 
steel  and  silver  by  a  smith  of  Damascus,  well 
balanced,  slender,  with  deep  blood-channels  scored 
on  each  side  to  within  four  fingers  of  the  thrice- 
hardened  point,  that  could  prick  as  delicately  as  a 
needle  or  pierce  fine  mail  like  a  spike  driven  by  a 
sledge-hammer.  The  tunic  fell  in  folds  to  the  knee, 
and  the  close-fitted  cloth  hose  were  of  a  rich  dark 
brown.  Sir  Arnold  wore  short  riding-boots  of  dark 
purple  leather,  having  the  tops  worked  round  with  a 
fine  scarlet  lacing  ;  but  the  spur-leathers  were  of  the 
same  colour  as  the  boot  and  the  spurs  themselves  of 
steel,  small,  sharp,  unornamented,  and  workmanlike. 
Six  years  had  passed  since  that  evening,  and  still, 
when  the  Lady  Goda  closed  her  eyes  and  thought  of 
Sir  Arnold,  she  saw  him  as  she  had  seen  him  then, 
with  every  line  of  his  expression,  every  detail  of  his 
dress,  sitting  beside  her  in  the  warm  firelight,  lean 
ing  forward  a  little  in  his  chair,  and  talking  to  her 
in  a  tone  of  voice  that  was  meant  to  be  monotonous 
to  the  sleeper's  ear,  but  not  by  any  means  to  her 
own.  Between  Warde  and  Curboil  the  acquaint 
ance  had  matured  —  had  been  in  a  measure  forced  in 
its  growth  by  circumstances  and  mutual  obligations  ; 
but  it  had  never  ripened  into  the  confidence  of 


16  VIA  CRUCIS 

friendship  on  Warde's  side,  while  on  Sir  Arnold's  it 
had  been  but  a  well-played  comedy  to  hide  his  ris 
ing  hatred  for  the  Lady  Goda's  husband.  And  she, 
on  her  side,  played  her  part  as  well.  An  alliance  in 
which  ambition  had  held  the  place  of  heart  could 
not  remain  an  alliance  at  all  when  ambition  had 
been  altogether  disappointed.  She  hated  her  hus 
band  for  having  disappointed  her ;  she  despised  him 
for  having  made  nothing  of  his  many  gifts  and 
chances,  for  clinging  to  an  old  cause,  for  being  old- 
fashioned,  for  having  seen  much  and  taken  nothing 
—  which  makes  '  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands '  —  for 
being  slow,  good-natured,  kind-hearted,  and  a  prey 
to  all  who  wished  to  get  anything  from  him.  She 
reflected  with  bitterness  that  for  a  matter  of  seven 
or  eight  years  of  waiting,  and  a  turn  of  chance  which 
would  have  meant  happiness  instead  of  misery,  she 
might  have  had  the  widowed  Sir  Arnold  for  a  hus 
band  and  have  been  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury's 
cousin,  high  in  favour  with  the  winning  side  in  the 
civil  war  and  united  to  a  man  who  would  have 
known  how  to  flatter  her  cold  nature  into  a  fiction 
of  feeling,  instead  of  wasting  on  her  the  almost 
exaggerated  respect  with  which  a  noble  passion 
envelops  its  object,  but  which,  to  most  women, 
becomes  in  the  end  unspeakably  wearisome. 

Many  a  time  during  those  six  years  had  she  and 
Sir  Arnold  met  and  talked  as  on  the  first  night. 
Once,  when  the  Empress  Maud  had  taken  King 
Stephen  prisoner,  and  things  looked  ill  for  his  fol 
lowers,  Warde  had  insisted  that  his  neighbour  should 
come  over  to  Stoke  Regis,  as  being  a  safer  place 


VIA   CRTJCIS  17 

than  his  own  castle ;  and  once  again,  when  Stephen 
had  the  upper  hand,  and  Sir  Raymond  was  fighting 
desperately  under  Gloucester,  his  wife  had  taken 
her  son,  and  the  priest,  and  some  of  her  women,  and 
had  ridden  over  to  ask  protection  of  Sir  Arnold, 
leaving  the  manor  to  take  care  of  itself. 

At  first  Curboil  had  constantly  professed  admira 
tion  for  Warde's  mental  and  physical  gifts  ;  but  little 
by  little,  tactfully  feeling  his  distance,  he  had  made 
the  lady  meet  his  real  intention  half  way  by  con 
fiding  to  him  all  that  she  suffered,  or  fancied  that 
she  suffered  —  which  with  some  women  is  the  same 
thing  —  in  being  bound  for  life  to  a  man  who  had 
failed  to  give  her  what  her  ambition  craved.  Then, 
one  day,  the  key-word  had  been  spoken.  After  that, 
they  never  ceased  to  hope  that  Raymond  Warde  might 
come  to  an  untimely  end. 

During  these  years  Gilbert  had  grown  from  a  boy 
to  a  man,  unsuspicious,  worshipping  his  mother  as  a 
kind  of  superior  being,  but  loving  his  father  with 
all  that  profound  instinct  of  mutual  understanding 
which  makes  both  love  and  hatred  terrible  within 
the  closer  degrees  of  consanguinity.  As  time  went 
by  and  the  little  Beatrix  grew  tall  and  straight  and 
pale,  Gilbert  loved  her  quite  naturally,  as  she  loved 
him  —  two  young  people  of  one  class,  without  other 
companions,  and  very  often  brought  together  for 
days  at  a  time  in  the  isolated  existence  of  mediaeval 
castles.  Perhaps  Gilbert  never  realized  just  how 
much  of  his  affection  for  his  mother  was  the  result 
of  her  willingness  to  let  him  fall  in  love  with  Bea 
trix.  But  the  possibility  of  discussing  the  marriage 


18  VIA   CRUCIS 

was  another  excuse  for  those  long  conversations  with 
Sir  Arnold,  which  had  now  become  a  necessary  part 
of  Goda's  life,  and  it  made  the  frequent  visits  and 
meetings  in  the  hawking  season  seem  quite  natural 
to  the  unsuspecting  Sir  Raymond.  In  hunting  with 
Sir  Arnold,  he  had  more  than  one  narrow  escape. 
Once,  when  almost  at  close  quarters  with  an  old 
boar,  he  was  stooping  down  to  meet  the  tusker  with 
a  low  thrust.  His  wife  and  Sir  Arnold  were  some 
twenty  paces  behind  him,  and  all  three  had  become 
separated  from  the  huntsmen.  Seeing  the  position 
and  the  solitude,  the  Lady  Goda  turned  her  meaning 
eyes  to  her  companion.  An  instant  later  Sir  Arnold's 
boar-spear  flew  like  a  cloth-yard  arrow,  straight  at 
Sir  Raymond's  back.  But  in  that  very  instant,  too, 
as  the  boar  rushed  upon  him,  Warde  sprang  to  one 
side,  and,  almost  dropping  to  his  knee,  ran  the  wild 
beast  through  with  his  hunting  sword.  The  spear 
flew  harmless  over  his  head,  unseen  and  unheard,  and 
lost  itself  in  the  dead  leaves  twenty  yards  beyond 
him.  On  another  day,  Raymond,  riding  along,  hawk 
on  wrist,  ten  lengths  before  the  others,  as  was  his 
wont,  did  not  notice  that  they  gradually  fell  behind, 
until  he  halted  in  a  narrow  path  of  the  forest,  looked 
round,  and  found  himself  alone.  He  turned  his 
horse's  head  and  rode  back  a  few  yards,  when  sud 
denly  three  masked  men,  whom  he  took  for  robbers, 
sprang  up  in  his  path  and  fell  upon  him  with 
long  knives.  But  they  had  misreckoned  their  dis 
tance  by  a  single  yard,  and  their  time  by  one  second, 
and  when  they  were  near  enough  to  strike,  his  sword 
was  already  in  his  hand.  The  first  man  fell  dead ; 


VIA   CRUCIS  19 

the  second  turned  and  fled,  with  a  deep  flesh  wound 
in  his  shoulder ;  the  third  followed  without  strik 
ing  a  blow  •,  and  Sir  Raymond  rode  on  unhurt,  medi 
tating  upon  the  uncertainty  of  the  times.  When  he 
rejoined  his  wife  and  friend,  he  found  them  dis 
mounted  and  sitting  side  by  side  on  a  fallen  tree, 
talking  low  and  earnestly,  while  the  footmen  and 
falconers  were  gathered  together  in  a  little  knot  at 
some  distance.  As  they  heard  his  voice,  Goda 
started  with  a  little  cry,  and  Arnold's  dark  face 
turned  white ;  but  by  the  time  he  was  beside  them, 
they  were  calm  again,  and  smiled,  and  they  asked  him 
whether  he  had  lost  his  way.  Raymond  said  nothing 
of  what  had  happened  to  him,  fearing  to  startle  the 
delicate  nerves  of  his  lady ;  but  late  on  the  follow 
ing  night,  when  Sir  Arnold  was  alone  in  his  bed 
chamber,  a  man  ghastly  white  from  loss  of  blood 
lifted  the  heav^  curtain  and  told  his  story  in  a  low 
voice. 


CHAPTER  II 

Now  Raymond  and  his  son  had  gone  over  into 
Berkshire,  to  the  building  of  the  great  castle  at 
Faringdon,  as  has  been  said ;  and  for  a  while  Sir 
Arnold  remained  in  his  hold,  and  very  often  he  rode 
over  alone  to  Stoke,  and  spent  many  hours  with 
the  Lady  Goda,  both  in  the  hall  and  in  the  small 
garden  by  the  moat.  The  priest,  and  the  steward, 
and  the  men-at-arms,  and  the  porter,  were  all  used  to 
see  him  there  often  enough,  when  Sir  Raymond  was 
at  home,  and  they  thought  no  evil  because  he  came 
now  to  bear  the  lonely  lady  company ;  for  the 
manners  of  those  days  were  simple. 

But  on  a  morning  at  the  end  of  April,  there  came 
a  messenger  from  King  Stephen,  bidding  all  earls, 
barons,  bannerets,  and  knights,  upon  their  oath  of 
fealty,  join  him  with  their  fighting  men  in  Oxford. 
For  form's  sake,  the  messenger  came  to  Stoke  Regis, 
as  not  admitting  that  any  Norman  knight  should 
not  be  on  the  king's  side ;  and  the  drawbridge  being 
down,  he  rode  under  the  gateway,  and  when  the 
trumpeter  who  was  with  him  had  blown  three  blasts, 
he  delivered  his  message.  Then  the  steward,  bow 
ing  deeply,  answered  that  his  lord  was  absent  on  a 
journey ;  and  the  messenger  turned  and  rode  away, 
without  bite  or  sup.  But,  riding  on  to  Stortford 
Castle,  he  found  Sir  Arnold,  and  delivered  the  king's 

20 


VIA   CRUCIS  21 

bidding  with  more  effect,  and  was  hospitably  treated 
with  meat  and  drink.  Sir  Arnold  armed  himself 
slowly  in  full  mail,  saving  his  head,  for  the  weather 
was  strangely  warm,  and  he  would  ride  in  his  hat 
rather  than  wear  the  heavy  steel  cap  with  the  broad 
nose-guard.  Before  an  hour  had  passed  he  was 
mounted,  with  his  men,  and  his  footmen  were  march 
ing  before  and  behind  him  on  the  broad  Hertford 
road.  But  he  had  sent  a  messenger  secretly  to  the 
Lady  Goda,  to  tell  her  that  he  was  gone ;  and  after 
that  she  heard  nothing  for  many  days. 

In  the  morning,  and  after  dinner,  and  before  sun 
set,  she  came  every  day  to  the  little  garden  under 
the  west  wall  of  the  manor,  and  looked  long  toward 
the  road  —  not  that  she  wished  Sir  Raymond  back 
nor  that  she  cared  when  Gilbert  came,  but  she  well 
knew  that  the  return  of  either  would  mean  that  the 
fighting  was  over,  and  that  Sir  Arnold,  too,  would 
be  at  leisure  to  go  home. 

On  that  fifth  of  May,  as  the  sun  was  going 
down,  she  stood  still  and  looked  out  toward  the 
road  for  the  tenth  time  since  Curboil  had  gone  to 
join  the  king.  The  sun  sank  lower,  and  still  she 
saw  nothing  ;  and  she  felt  the  chill  of  the  damp  even 
ing  air,  and  would  have  turned  to  go  in,  but  some 
thing  held  her.  Far  up  the  road,  on  the  brow  of  the 
rising  ground,  she  saw  a  tiny  spark,  a  little  dancing 
flame  like  the  corpse-candles  that  run  along  the 
graves  on  a  summer's  night  —  first  one,  then  all  at 
once  three,  then,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  a  score  at  least, 
swaying  a  little  above  a  compact  dark  mass  against 
the  red  sky.  The  lights  were  like  little  stars  rising 


22  VIA   CRUCIS 

and  falling  on  the  horizon,  and  always  just  above  a 
low,  black  cloud.  A  moment  more,  and  the  evening 
breeze  out  of  the  west  brought  a  long-drawn  har 
mony  of  chanting  to  the  Lady  Goda's  ear,  the  high 
sweet  notes  of  youthful  voices  sustained  by  the 
rich  counterpoint  of  many  grown  men's  tones.  She 
started,  and  held  her  breath,  shivered  a  little,  and 
snatched  at  the  rose  bush  beside  her,  so  that  the 
thorns  struck  through  the  soft  green  gauntlet  and 
pricked  her,  though  she  felt  nothing.  There  was 
death  in  the  air ;  there  was  death  in  the  moving  lights ; 
there  was  death  in  the  minor  wail  of  the  monks'  voices. 
In  the  first  moment  of  imperfect  understanding,  it  was 
Arnold  whom  they  were  bringing  home  to  her,  slain  in 
battle  by  her  lawful  husband,  or  by  Gilbert,  her  son  ; 
it  was  Arnold  whom  they  were  bringing  back  to  her 
who  loved  him,  that  she  might  wash  his  wounds  with 
her  tears,  and  dry  his  damp  brow  with  her  glorious 
hair.  Wide-eyed  and  silent,  as  the  train  came  near, 
she  moved  along  by  the  moat  to  meet  the  procession 
at  the  drawbridge,  not  understanding  yet,  but  not 
letting  one  movement  of  the  men,  one  flicker  of  the 
lights,  one  quaver  of  the  deep  chant,  escape  her 
reeling  senses.  Then  all  at  once  she  was  aware  that 
Gilbert  walked  bareheaded  before  the  bier,  half 
wrapped  in  a  long  black  cloak  that  swept  the  green 
sward  behind  him.  As  she  turned  the  last  bastion 
before  reaching  the  drawbridge,  the  funeral  was 
moving  along  by  the  outer  edge  of  the  moat,  and 
between  the  procession  and  her  there  was  only  the 
broad  water,  reflecting  the  lights  of  the  moving 
tapers,  the  dark  cowls  of  the  monks,  the  white  sur- 


VIA   CKUCIS  23 

plices  of  the  song-boys.  They  moved  slowly,  and 
she,  as  in  a  dream,  followed  them  on  the  other  side 
with  little  steps,  wondering,  fearing,  starting  now 
with  a  wild  thrill  of  liberty  at  last,  now  strug 
gling  with  a  half  conventional,  half  hysterical  sob  that 
rose  in  her  throat  at  the  thought  of  death  so  near. 
She  had  lived  with  him,  she  had  played  the  long 
comedy  of  love  with  him,  she  had  loathed  him  in 
her  heart,  she  had  smiled  at  him  with  well-trained 
eyes ;  and  now  she  was  free  to  choose,  free  to  love, 
free  to  be  Arnold's  wife.  And  yet  she  had  lived 
with  the  dead  man;  and  in  the  far-off  past  there  were 
little  tender  lights  of  happiness,  half  real,  half  played, 
but  never  forgotten,  upon  which  she  had  once  taught 
her  thoughts  to  dwell  tenderly  and  sadly.  She  had 
loved  the  dead  man  in  the  first  days  of  marriage,  as 
well  as  her  cold  and  unawakened  nature  could  love 
at  all  —  if  not  for  himself,  at  least  for  the  hopes  of 
vanity  built  on  his  name.  She  had  hated  him  in 
secret,  but  she  could  not  have  hated  him  so  heartily 
had  there  not  once  been  a  little  love  to  turn  so 
fiercely  sour.  She  could  not  have  trained  her  eyes 
to  smile  at  him  so  gently  had  she  not  once  smiled 
for  his  own  sake.  And  so,  when  they  brought  him 
dead  to  the  gate  of  his  own  house,  his  wife  had  still 
some  shreds  of  memories  for  weeds  to  eke  out  a  show 
of  sorrow. 

She  passed  through  the  postern  in  the  small  round 
tower  beside  the  gateway,  knowing  that  when  she 
came  out  under  the  portcullis,  the  funeral  train 
would  be  just  reaching  the  other  end  of  the  bridge. 
The  little  vaulted  room  in  the  lower  story  of  the 


24  VIA   CRUCIS 

tower  was  not  four  steps  in  width  across,  from  door 
to  door  ;  but  it  was  almost  dark,  and  there  the  Lady 
Goda  stopped  one  moment  before  she  went  out  to 
meet  the  mourners.  Standing  still  in  the  dimness, 
she  pressed  her  gloved  hands  to  her  eyes  with  all 
her  might,  as  though  to  concentrate  her  thoughts 
and  her  strength.  Then  she  threw  back  her  arms, 
and  looked  up  through  the  gloom,  and  almost 
laughed ;  and  she  felt  something  just  below  her 
heart  that  stifled  her  like  a  great  joy.  Then  all 
at  once  she  was  calm,  and  touched  her  eyes  again 
with  her  gloved  hands,  but  gently  now,  as  though 
smoothing  them  and  preparing  them  to  look  upon 
what  they  must  see  presently.  She  opened  the 
little  door,  and  was  suddenly  standing  in  the  midst 
of  the  frightened  herd  of  retainers  and  servants, 
while  the  last  strains  of  the  dirge  came  echoing 
under  the  deep  archway.  At  that  instant  another 
sound  startled  the  air  — the  deep  bell-note  of  the  great 
bloodhounds,  chained  in  the  courtyard  from  sunrise 
to  sunset;  and  it  sank  to  a  wail,  and  the  wail  broke 
to  a  howl,  dismal,  ear-rending,  wild.  Before  it  had 
died  away,  one  of  the  Saxon  bondwomen  shrieked 
aloud,  and  the  next  took  up  the  cry,  and  then  an 
other,  as  a  like  wake  dirge,  till  every  stone  in  the 
shadowy  manor  seemed  to  have  a  voice,  and  every 
voice  was  weeping  for  the  dead  lord.  And  many  of 
the  women  fell  upon  their  knees,  and  some  of  the 
men,  too,  while  others  drew  up  their  hoods,  and 
stood  with  bent  heads  and  folded  hands  against  the 
rough  walls. 

Slowly  and  solemnly  they  bore  him  in  and  set  the 


VIA   CEUCIS  25 

bier  down  under  the  mid-arch.  Then  Gilbert  Warde 
looked  up  and  faced  his  mother  ;  but  he  stood  aside, 
that  she  might  see  her  husband  ;  and  the  monks  and 
song-boys  stood  back  also,  with  their  wax  torches, 
which  cast  a  dancing  glare  through  the  dim  twilight. 
Gilbert's  face  was  white  and  stern;  but  the  Lady  Goda 
was  pale,  too,  and  her  heart  fluttered,  for  she  had  to 
play  the  last  act  of  her  married  life  before  many 
who  would  watch  her  narrowly.  For  one  moment 
she  hesitated  whether  to  scream  or  to  faint  in  honour 
of  her  dead  husband.  Then,  with  the  instinct  of  the 
born  and  perfect  actress,  she  looked  wildly  from  her 
son's  face  to  the  straight,  still  length  that  lay  be 
neath  the  pall.  She  raised  one  hand  to  her  forehead, 
pressing  back  her  golden  hair  with  a  gesture  half 
mad,  half  dazed,  then  seemed  to  stagger  forward 
two  steps,  and  fell  upon  the  body,  in  a  storm  of 
tears. 

Gilbert  went  to  the  bier,  and  lifted  one  of  his 
mother's  gloved  hands  from  the  covered  face,  and  it 
dropped  from  his  fingers  as  if  lifeless.  He  lifted  the 
black  cloth  pall,  and  turned  it  back  as  far  as  he  could 
without  disturbing  the  woman's  prostrate  figure;  and 
there  lay  the  Lord  of  Stoke,  in  his  mail,  as  he  had 
fallen  in  fight,  in  his  peaked  steel  helmet,  the 
straight,  fine,  ring-mail  close-drawn  round  his  face 
and  chin,  the  silky  brown  hair  looking  terribly 
alive  against  the  dead  face.  But  across  the  eyes 
and  the  forehead  below  the  helmet  there  was  laid  a 
straight  black  band,  and  upon  his  breast  the  great 
mailed  hands  clasped  the  cross-hilted  sword  that  lay 
lengthwise  with  his  body.  Gilbert,  bareheaded  and 


26  VIA   CRTJCIS 

unarmed,  gazed  down  into  his  father's  face  for  a 
while,  then  suddenly  looked  up  and  spoke  to  all 
the  people  who  thronged  the  gateway. 

"  Men  of  Stoke,"  he  said,  "  here  lies  the  body  of 
Sir  Raymond  Warde,  your  liege  lord,  my  father. 
He  fell  in  the  fight  before  Faringdon  Castle,  and 
this  is  the  third  day  since  he  was  slain ;  for  the  way 
was  long,  and  we  were  not  suffered  to  pass  unmo 
lested.  The  castle  was  but  half  built,  and  we  were 
encamped  about  it  with  the  Earl  of  Gloucester,  when 
the  king  came  suddenly  from  Oxford  with  a  great 
host;  and  they  fell  upon  us  unawares  at  early  morn 
ing,  when  we  had  but  just  heard  the  mass  and  most 
of  us  were  but  half  armed,  or  not  at  all.  So  we 
fought  as  we  could,  and  many  fell,  and  not  a  few 
we  killed  with  our  hands.  And  I,  with  a  helmet  on 
my  head  and  a  gambison  but  half  buckled  upon  my 
body,  and  my  hands  bare,  was  fighting  with  a  full- 
armed  Frenchman  and  was  hard  pressed.  But  I 
smote  him  in  the  neck,  so  that  he  fell  upon  one  knee 
and  reeled.  And  even  in  that  moment  I  saw  this 
sight.  A  score  of  paces  from  me,  my  father  and 
Sir  Arnold  de  Curboil  met  face  to  face,  suddenly  and 
without  warning,  their  swords  lifted  in  the  act  to 
strike ;  but  when  my  father  saw  his  friend  before 
him,  he  dropped  his  sword-arm  and  smiled,  and 
would  have  turned  away  to  fight  another ;  but  Sir 
Arnold  smiled  also,  and  lowered  not  his  hand,  but 
smote  my  father  by  the  point,  unguarded,  and  thrust 
his  sword  through  head  and  hood  of  mail  at  one 
stroke,  treacherously.  And  so  my  father,  your  liege 
lord,  fell  dead  unshriven,  by  his  friend's  hand  ;  and 


VIA   CBUCIS  27 

may  the  curse  of  man  and  the  damnation  of 
Almighty  God  be  upon  his  murderer's  head,  now 
and  after  I  shall  have  killed  him.  For,  as  I  would 
have  sprung  forward,  the  Frenchman,  who  was  but 
stunned,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  grappled  with  me  -, 
and  by  the  time  he  had  no  breath  left,  and  the  light 
broke  in  his  eyes,  Sir  Arnold  was  gone,  and  our 
fight  was  lost.  So  we  made  a  truce  to  bury  our 
dead,  and  brought  them  away,  each  his  own." 

When  he  had  spoken  there  was  silence  for  many 
moments,  broken  only  by  the  Lady  Goda's  unceasing 
sobs.  In  the  court  within,  and  on  the  bridge  with 
out,  the  air  grew  purple,  and  dark,  and  misty ;  for 
the  sun  had  long  gone  down,  and  the  light  from  the 
wax  torches,  leaping,  flaming  and  flickering  in  the 
evening  breeze,  grew  stronger  and  yellower  under 
the  gateway  than  the  twilight  without.  The  dark- 
robed  monks  looked  gravely  on,  waiting  till  they 
should  be  told  to  pass  into  the  chapel  —  men  of  all 
ages  and  looks,  red  and  pale,  thin  and  stout,  dark  and 
fair,  but  all  having  that  something  in  their  faces  that 
marks  the  churchman  from  century  to  century.  Be 
tween  them  and  the  dead  knight,  Gilbert  stood  still 
with  bent  head  and  downcast  eyes,  with  pale  face 
and  set  lips,  looking  at  his  mother's  bright  hair,  and 
at  her  clutching  hands,  and  listening  to  the  painfully 
drawn  breath,  broken  continually  by  her  agonized 
weeping.  Suddenly  the  bloodhounds'  bay  broke  out 
again,  fierce  and  deep;  and  on  the  instant  a  high  young 
voice  rang  from  the  court  through  the  deep  arch. 

"  Burn  the  murderer  !  To  Stortford,  and  burn 
him  out !  " 


28  VIA   CKUCIS 

Gilbert  looked  up  quickly,  peering  into  the  gloom 
whence  the  voice  had  spoken.  He  did  not  see  how, 
at  the  words,  his  mother  started  back  from  the  corpse, 
steadied  herself  with  one  hand,  and  fixed  her  eyes 
in  the  same  direction  ;  but  before  he  could  answer, 
the  cry  was  taken  up  by  a  hundred  throats. 

"  Burn  the  traitor  !  burn  the  murderer  !  To  Stort- 
ford  !  Fagots  !  Fagots  and  pitch  !  " 

High,  low,  hoarse,  clear,  the  words  followed  one 
another  in  savage  yells  ;  and  here  and  there  among 
the  rough  men  there  were  eyes  that  gleamed  in  the 
dark  like  a  dog's. 

Then  through  the  din  came  a  rattling  of  bolts  and 
a  creaking  of  hinges,  as  the  grooms  tore  open  the 
stable  doors  to  bring  out  the  horses  and  saddle  them 
for  the  raid  ;  and  one  called  for  a  light  and  another 
warned  men  from  his  horse's  heels.  The  Lady  Goda 
was  on  her  feet,  her  hands  stretched  out  imploringly 
to  her  son,  turning  to  him  instinctively  and  for  the 
first  time,  as  to  the  head  of  the  house.  She  spoke  to 
him,  too  ;  but  he  neither  heard  nor  saw,  for  in  his 
own  heart  a  new  horror  had  possession,  beside  which 
what  had  gone  before  was  as  nothing.  He  thought 
of  Beatrix. 

"  Hold  !  "  he  cried.  "  Let  no  man  stir,  for  no 
man  shall  pass  out  who  would  burn  Stortford.  Sir 
Arnold  de  Curboil  is  the  king's  man,  and  the  king 
has  the  power  in  England ;  so  that  if  we  should  burn 
down  Stortford  Castle  to-night,  he  would  burn  Stoke 
Manor  to-morrow  over  my  mother's  head.  Between 
Arnold  de  Curboil  and  me  there  is  death.  To-mor 
row  I  shall  ride  out  to  find  him,  and  kill  him  in  fair 


VIA  CRUCIS  29 

fight.  But  let  there  be  no  raiding,  no  harrying,  and 
no  burning,  as  if  we  were  Stephen's  French  robbers, 
or  King  David's  red-haired  Scots.  Take  up  the  bier; 
and  you,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  monks  and  song- 
men,  "  take  up  your  chant,  that  we  may  lay  him  in 
the  chapel  and  say  prayers  for  his  unshriven  soul." 

The  Lady  Goda's  left  hand  had  been  pressed  to 
her  heart  as  though  she  were  in  fear  and  pain;  but  as 
her  son  spoke,  it  fell  by  her  side,  and  her  face  grew 
calm  before  she  remembered  that  it  should  grow  sad. 
Until  to-day  her  son  had  been  in  her  eyes  but  a 
child,  subject  to  his  father,  subject  to  herself,  subject 
to  the  old  manor-priest  who  had  taught  him  the 
little  he  knew.  Now,  on  a  sudden,  he  was  full- 
grown  and  strong ;  more  than  that,  he  was  master 
in  his  father's  place,  and  at  a  word  from  him,  men- 
at-arms  and  bondsmen  would  have  gone  forth  on 
the  instant  to  slay  the  man  she  loved,  and  to  burn 
and  to  harry  all  that  was  his.  She  was  grateful  to 
him  for  not  having  spoken  that  word  ;  and  since 
Gilbert  meant  to  meet  Curboil  in  a  single  combat, 
she  felt  no  fear  for  her  lover,  the  most  skilled 
man  at  fence  in  all  Essex  and  Hertfordshire,  and 
she  felt  sure,  likewise,  that  for  his  reputation  as  a 
knight  he  would  not  kill  a  youth  but  half  his  age. 

While  she  was  thinking  of  these  things,  the 
monks  had  begun  to  chant  again  ;  the  confusion  was 
ended  in  the  courtyard  ;  the  squires  took  up  the  bier, 
and  the  procession  moved  slowly  across  the  broad 
paved  space  to  the  chapel  opposite  the  main  gate. 

An  hour  later  Sir  Raymond's  dead  body  lay  before 
the  altar,  whereon  burned  many  waxen  tapers.  Alone, 


30  VIA   CRUCIS 

upon  the  lowest  step,  Gilbert  was  kneeling,  with 
joined  hands  and  uplifted  eyes,  motionless  as  a 
statue.  He  had  taken  the  long  sword  from  the  dead 
man's  breast,  and  had  set  it  up  against  the  altar, 
straight  and  bare.  It  was  hacked  at  the  edges, 
and  there  were  dark  stains  upon  it  from  its  master's 
last  day's  work.  In  the  simple  faith  of  a  bloody 
age,  Gilbert  Warde  was  vowing,  by  all  that  he  and 
his  held  sacred,  before  God's  altar,  upon  God's 
Sacred  Body,  upon  his  father's  unburied  corpse,  that 
before  the  blade  should  be  polished  again,  it  should 
be  black  with  the  blood  of  his  father's  murderer. 

And  as  he  knelt  there,  his  lady  mother,  now  clad 
all  in  black,  entered  the  chapel  and  moved  slowly 
towards  the  altar-steps.  She  meant  to  kneel  beside 
her  son;  but  when  she  was  yet  three  paces  from 
him,  a  great  terror  at  her  own  falseness  descended 
into  her  heart,  and  she  sank  upon  her  knees  in  the 
aisle. 


CHAPTER   IB 

VERY  early  in  the  morning,  Gilbert  Warde  was 
riding  along  the  straight  road  between  Sheering 
Abbey  and  Stortford  Castle.  He  rode  in  his  tunic 
and  hose  and  russet  boots,  with  his  father's  sword 
by  his  side;  for  he  meant  not  to  do  murder,  but  to 
fight  his  enemy  to  death,  in  all  the  honour  of  even 
chance.  He  judged  that  Sir  Arnold  must  have 
returned  from  Faringdon ;  and  if  Gilbert  met  him 
now,  riding  over  his  own  lands  in  the  May  morning, 
he  would  be  unmailed  and  unsuspecting  of  attack. 
And  should  they  not  meet,  Gilbert  meant  to  ride  up 
to  the  castle  gate,  and  ask  for  the  baron,  and  courte 
ously  propose  to  him  that  they  should  ride  together 
into  the  wood.  And,  indeed,  Gilbert  hoped  that  it 
might  turn  out  so  ;  for,  once  under  the  gateway,  he 
might  hope  to  see  Beatrix  for  a  moment ;  and  two 
weeks  had  passed,  and  terrible  things  had  happened, 
since  he  had  last  set  eyes  upon  her  face. 

He  met  no  one  in  the  road  ;  but  in  the  meadow 
before  the  castle  half  a  dozen  Saxon  grooms,  in 
loose  hose  and  short  homespun  tunics,  were  exer 
cising  some  of  Curboil's  great  Normandy  horses. 
The  baron  himself  was  not  in  sight,  and  the  grooms 
told  Gilbert  that  he  was  within.  The  drawbridge 
was  down,  and  Gilbert  halted  just  before  entering 
the  gate,  calling  loudly  for  the  porter.  But  instead 

31 


32  VIA   CKUCIS 

of  the  latter,  Sir  Arnold  himself  appeared  at  that 
moment  within  the  courtyard,  feeding  a  brace  of 
huge  mastiffs  with  gobbets  of  red  raw  meat  from  a 
wooden  bowl,  carried  by  a  bare-legged  stable-boy 
with  a  shock  of  almost  colourless  flaxen  hair,  and  a 
round,  red  face,  pierced  by  two  little  round  blue  eyes. 
Gilbert  called  again,  and  the  knight  instantly  turned 
and  came  towards  him,  beating  down  with  his  hands 
the  huge  dogs  that  sprang  up  at  him  in  play  and 
seemed  trying  to  drive  him  back.  Sir  Arnold  was 
smooth,  spotless  and  carefully  dressed  as  ever,  and 
came  forward  with  a  well-composed  smile  in  which 
hospitality  was  skilfully  blended  with  sympathy  and 
concern.  Gilbert,  who  was  as  thorough  a  Norman 
in  every  instinct  and  thought  as  any  whose  fathers 
had  held  lands  from  the  Conqueror,  did  his  best  to 
be  suave  and  courteous  on  his  side.  Dismounting, 
he  said  quietly  that  he  desired  to  speak  with  Sir 
Arnold  alone  upon  a  matter  of  weight,  and  as  the 
day  was  fair,  he  proposed  that  they  should  ride 
together  for  a  little  way  into  the  greenwood.  Sir 
Arnold  barely  showed  a  slight  surprise,  and  readily 
assented.  Gilbert,  intent  upon  his  purpose,  noticed 
that  the  knight  had  no  weapon. 

"  It  were  as  well  that  you  took  your  sword  with 
you,  Sir  Arnold,"  he  said,  somewhat  emphatically. 
"  No  one  is  safe  from  highwaymen  in  these  times. " 

The  knight  met  Gilbert's  eyes,  and  the  two  looked 
at  each  other  steadily  for  a  moment ;  then  Curboil 
sent  the  stable-boy  to  fetch  his  sword  from  the  hall, 
and  himself  went  out  upon  the  drawbridge  and 
called  to  one  of  the  grooms  to  bring  in  a  horse.  In 


VIA   CRUCIS  33 

less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time  when  Gilbert 
had  reached  the  castle,  he  and  his  enemy  were  riding 
quietly  side  by  side  in  a  little  glade  in  Stortf  ord  wood. 
Gilbert  drew  rein  and  walked  his  horse,  and  Sir 
Arnold  instantly  did  the  same.  Then  Gilbert  spoke. 

"  Sir  Arnold  de  Curboil,  it  is  now  full  three  days 
since  I  saw  you  treacherously  kill  my  father." 

Sir  Arnold  started  and  turned  half  round  in  the 
saddle,  his  olive  skin  suddenly  white  with  anger;  but 
the  soft  fresh  colour  in  Gilbert's  cheek  never  changed. 

"  Treacherously  I  "  cried  the  knight,  with  indig 
nation  and  with  a  questioning  tone. 

"  Foully,"  answered  Gilbert,  with  perfect  calm. 
"I  was  not  twenty  paces  from  you  when  you  met, 
and  had  I  not  been  hampered  by  a  Frenchman  of 
your  side,  who  was  unreasonably  slow  in  dying,  I 
should  have  either  saved  my  father's  life  or  ended 
yours,  as  I  mean  to  now." 

Thereupon  Gilbert  brought  his  horse  to  a  stand 
and  prepared  to  dismount,  for  the  sward  was  smooth 
and  hard  and  there  was  room  enough  to  fight.  Sir 
Arnold  laughed  aloud  as  he  sat  still  in  the  saddle, 
watching  the  younger  man. 

"  So  you  have  brought  me  here  to  kill  me ! "  he 
said  as  his  mirth  subsided. 

Gilbert's  foot  was  already  on  the  ground,  but  he 
paused  in  the  act  of  dismounting. 

"  If  you  do  not  like  the  spot,"  he  answered  coolly, 
"  we  can  ride  farther." 

"  No,  I  am  satisfied,"  answered  the  knight ;  but 
before  he  had  spoken  the  last  word  he  broke  into  a 
laugh  again. 


34  VIA   CRUCIS 

They  tied  up  their  horses  to  trees  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  out  of  reach  of  one  another,  and  Gilbert  was 
the  first  to  return  to  the  ring  of  open  ground.  As 
he  walked,  he  drew  his  father's  sword  from  its 
sheath,  slipped  the  scabbard  from  the  belt,  and  threw 
it  to  the  edge  of  the  grass.  Sir  Arnold  was  before 
him  a  moment  later ;  but  his  left  hand  only  rested 
on  the  pommel  of  his  sheathed  weapon,  and  he 
was  still  smiling  as  he  stopped  before  his  young 
adversary. 

"I  should  by  no  means  object  to  fighting  you," 
he  said,  "if  I  had  killed  your  father  in  treachery. 
But  I  did  not.  I  saw  you  as  well  as  you  saw  me. 
Your  Frenchman,  as  you  call  him,  hindered  your 
sight.  Your  father  was  either  beside  himself  with 
rage,  or  did  not  know  me  in  my  mail.  He  dropped 
his  point  one  instant,  and  then  flew  at  me  like  a 
bloodhound,  so  that  I  barely  saved  myself  by  slaying 
him  against  my  will.  I  will  not  fight  you  unless 
you  force  me  to  it ;  and  you  had  better  not,  for 
if  you  do,  I  shall  lay  you  by  the  heels  in  two 
passes." 

"  Bragging  and  lying  are  well  coupled,"  answered 
Gilbert,  falling  into  guard.  "  Draw  before  I  shall 
have  counted  three,  or  I  will  skewer  you  like  a 
trussed  fowl.  One  —  two  —  " 

Before  the  next  word  could  pass  his  lips,  Sir 
Arnold's  sword  was  out,  keen  and  bright  as  if  it 
had  just  left  the  armourer's  hands,  clashing  upon 
Gilbert's  hacked  and  blood-rusted  blade. 

Sir  Arnold  was  a  brave  man,  but  he  was  also 
cautious.  He  expected  to  find  in  Gilbert  a  beginner 


VIA   CRUCIS  35 

of  small  skill  and  reckless  bravery,  who  would 
expose  himself  for  the  sake  of  bringing  in  a  sweep 
ing  blow  in  carte,  or  attempting  a  desperate  thrust. 
Consequently  he  did  not  attempt  to  put  his  brag 
ging  threat  into  practice,  for  Gilbert  was  taller 
than  he,  stronger,  and  more  than  twenty  years 
younger.  Unmailed,  as  he  stood  in  his  tunic  and 
hose,  one  vigc-rous  sword-stroke  of  the  furious  boy 
might  break  down  his  guard  and  cut  him  half  in 
two.  But  in  one  respect  Curboil  was  mistaken. 
Gilbert,  though  young,  was  one  of  those  naturally 
gifted  fencers  in  whom  the  movements  of  wrist  and 
arm  are  absolutely  simultaneous  with  the  perception 
of  the  eye,  and  not  divided  by  any  act  of  reasoning 
or  thought.  In  less  than  half  a  minute  Sir  Arnold 
knew  that  he  was  fighting  for  his  life  ;  the  full  min 
ute  had  not  passed  before  he  felt  Gilbert's  jagged 
blade  deep  in  the  big  muscles  of  his  sword  arm,  and 
his  own  weapon,  running  past  his  adversary,  fell 
from  his  powerless  hand. 

In  those  days  it  was  no  shame  to  strike  a  dis 
armed  foe,  in  a  duel  to  the  death.  As  Sir  Arnold 
felt  the  rough  steel  wrenched  from  the  flesh-wound, 
he  knew  that  the  next  stroke  would  kill  him. 
Quick  as  light,  his  left  hand  snatched  the  long 
dagger  from  its  sheath  at  his  left  side,  and  Gil 
bert,  raising  his  blade  to  strike,  felt  as  if  an  icicle 
had  pierced  his  breast ;  his  arm  trembled  in  the 
air,  and  lost  its  hold  upon  the  hilt ;  a  scarlet  veil 
descended  before  his  eyes,  and  the  bright  blood 
gushed  from  his  mouth  as  he  fell  straight  backward 
upon  the  green  turf. 


36  VIA  CRFCIS 

Sir  Arnold  stepped  back  and  stood  looking  at  the 
fallen  figure  curiously,  drawing  his  lids  down,  as 
some  short-sighted  men  do.  Then,  as  the  sobbing 
breast  ceased  to  heave  and  the  white  hands  lay  quite 
still  upon  the  sward,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
began  to  take  care  of  his  own  wound  by  twisting  a 
leathern  thong  from  Gilbert's  saddle  very  tight 
upon  his  upper  arm,  using  a  stout  oak  twig  for  a 
lever.  Then  he  plucked  a  handful  of  grass  with  his 
left  hand  and  tried  to  hold  his  dagger  in  his  right 
in  order  to  clean  the  reddened  steel.  But  his  right 
hand  was  useless  ;  so  he  knelt  on  one  knee  beside  the 
body,  and  ran  the  poniard  two  or  three  times  through 
the  skirt  of  Gilbert's  dark  tunic,  and  returned  it  to 
its  sheath.  He  picked  up  his  sword,  too,  and  suc 
ceeded  in  sheathing  it.  He  mounted  his  horse, 
leaving  Gilbert's  tethered  to  the  tree,  cast  one  more 
glance  at  the  motionless  figure  on  the  grass,  and  rode 
away  towards  Stortford  Castle. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Two  months  after  Sir  Arnold  de  Curboil  had  left 
Gilbert  Warde  in  the  forest,  believing  him  to  be 
dead,  the  ghostly  figure  of  a  tall,  wafer-thin  youth, 
leaning  on  the  shoulders  of  two  grey  brothers, 
was  led  out  into  the  warm  shadows  of  the  cloister 
in  Sheering  Abbey.  One  of  the  friars  carried  a 
brown  leathern  cushion,  the  other  a  piece  of  stiff 
parchment  for  a  fan,  and  when  they  reached  the 
first  stone  seat,  they  installed  the  sick  man  as 
comfortably  as  they  could. 

Three  travelling  monks,  tramping  homeward  by 
the  short  forest  path  from  Harlow  to  Sheering,  had 
found  Gilbert  lying  in  his  blood,  not  ten  minutes 
after  the  knight  had  ridden  away.  Not  knowing 
who  he  was,  they  had  brought  him  to  the  abbey, 
where  he  was  at  once  recognized  by  the  monks  who 
had  formed  the  funeral  procession  on  the  previous 
evening,  and  by  others  who  had  seen  him.  The 
brother  whose  duty  it  was  to  tend  the  sick,  an 
old  soldier  with  the  scars  of  a  dozen  deep  wounds 
in  him,  and  by  no  means  a  despicable  surgeon,  pro 
nounced  Gilbert's  condition  almost  hopeless,  and 
assured  the  abbot  that  it  would  be  certain  death 
to  the  young  Lord  of  Stoke  to  send  him  back  to  his 
home.  He  was  therefore  laid  upon  a  new  bed  in 
an  upper  chamber  that  had  fair  arched  windows 
to  the  west,  and  there  the  brothers  expected  that 

37 


38  VIA   CRUCIS 

Gilbert  Warde  would  before  long  breathe  his  last 
and  end  his  race  and  name.  The  abbot  sent  a  mes 
senger  to  Stoke  Regis  to  inform  the  Lady  Goda  of 
her  son's  condition,  and  on  the  following  day  she 
came  to  see  him,  but  he  did  not  know  her,  for  he 
was  in  a  fever  ;  and  three  days  passed,  and  she  came 
again,  but  he  was  asleep,  and  the  nursing  brother 
would  not  disturb  him.  After  that  she  sent  mes 
sengers  to  inquire  about  his  state,  but  she  herself 
did  not  come  again,  whereat  the  abbot  and  many 
of  the  monks  marvelled  for  a  while,  but  afterwards 
they  understood. 

Gilbert  lived,  and  the  desperate  wound  slowly 
healed,  for  he  was  strong  and  young,  and  his  blood 
was  untainted ;  but  when  at  last  he  was  allowed  to 
stand  upon  his  feet,  he  seemed  to  be  little  more  than 
a  fine-drawn  shadow.  They  dressed  him  first  in  a 
novice's  frock,  because  it  was  easier  for  him  to  wear, 
and  at  last  he  was  well  enough  to  be  carried  down 
from  his  room,  and  to  sit  for  an  hour  upon  the  stone 
bench  in  the  cloister.  One  of  the  brothers  sat  down 
beside  him  and  slowly  fanned  his  face  with  a  stiff 
sheet  of  yellow  parchment,  such  as  the  monks  used 
for  binding  their  books ;  the  other  went  away  to  his 
work.  Gilbert  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes, 
drinking  in  the  sun-sweetened  air  and  the  scent  of 
the  flowers  that  grew  in  the  cloister  garden ;  and 
the  indescribable  sense  of  peace  descended  upon  his 
body  and  soul  which  comes  to  men  wrested  from 
death,  when  danger  is  passed  and  their  strength  is 
slowly  growing  again  within  them. 

It  is  impossible  for  any  young  man  of  sensitive 


VIA   CKUCIS  39 

and  believing  mind  to  spend  two  months  in  a  great 
religious  institution  of  his  own  faith  without  feeling 
himself  drawn  to  the  religious  life.  Lying  in  his 
room,  alone  for  many  hours  of  the  day,  alone  in 
waking  watches  of  the  night,  though  a  brother  was 
always  within  call,  Gilbert  had  followed  with  a  sick 
man's  second  sight  the  lives  of  the  two  hundred 
monks  who  dwelt  in  Sheering  Abbey.  By  asking 
questions,  he  knew  how  they  rose  at  dawn,  and 
trooped  into  the  dim  abbey  church  to  early  mass,  and 
went  to  their  daily  work,  the  lay-brethren  and 
novices  in  the  field,  the  learned  fathers  in  the  library 
and  the  writing-room.  He  could  follow  their  daily 
round  of  prayer  and  work,  and  his  heart  was  with 
them  in  both.  Bloodless  and  emaciated  as  he  lay 
there,  the  life  of  love  and  war  which  had  once 
seemed  to  him  the  only  one  worth  living,  faded 
away  into  the  dimness  of  an  undesired  impossibility. 
He  had  failed,  too,  in  his  first  great  deed  of  arms ; 
his  father's  murderer  was  alive,  and  he  himself  had 
most  narrowly  escaped  death.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  his  thin  white  hands,  which  could  hardly  pull 
the  blanket  to  his  chin  when  he  felt  cold,  could 
never  again  have  strength  to  grasp  sword-hilt  or 
hold  bridle,  and  in  the  blank  collapse  of  his  physical 
existence  the  image  of  himself  as  a  monk,  young, 
ascetic  and  holy  in  his  life,  presented  itself  with  a 
marvellous  and  luring  attraction.  He  made  the 
nursing  brother  teach  him  prayers  from  the  offices 
of  the  night  and  day,  and  he  repeated  them  at  the 
right  hours,  feeling  that  he  was  taking  a  real  part 
in  the  monastic  existence.  Gradually^  too,  as  he 


40  VIA   CRUCIS 

caught  the  spirit  of  the  place,  the  gospel  of  forgive* 
ness,  ever  the  stumbling-block  of  fighting  men,  ap 
peared  to  him  as  something  that  could  be  practised 
without  dishonour,  and  the  determination  to  kill 
Sir  Arnold  gave  way  to  a  sort  of  attempt  at  repent 
ance  for  having  even  wished  to  be  revenged  upon 
him. 

One  thing  troubled  him  constantly  and  was  alto 
gether  beyond  his  comprehension.  His  mother 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  very  existence,  and 
he  had  not  consciously  seen  her  since  he  had  been 
wounded.  He  asked  questions  every  day,  and 
begged  the  abbot  himself  to  send  word  to  the  Lady 
Goda  asking  her  to  ride  over  to  the  abbey.  The 
abbot  smiled,  nodded,  and  seemed  to  promise ;  but 
if  the  message  was  ever  sent,  it  elicited  no  answer 
and  after  a  time,  as  Gilbert  grew  steadily  bettei, 
not  even  a  messenger  came  from  Stoke  Regis  to  ask 
about  him.  Now  Gilbert  had  worshipped  his  mother 
as  a  sort  of  superior  being,  and,  like  his  father, 
had  deceived  himself  with  the  belief  that  she  was 
devoted  to  him ;  so  that,  as  time  went  on,  and  he 
was  utterly  neglected  by  her,  the  conviction  was 
forced  upon  him  that  something  terrible  and  unfore 
seen  had  happened.  Yet  the  abbot  would  tell  him 
nothing,  nor  the  brothers  who  tended  him  ;  to  the 
best  of  their  knowledge,  they  said,  the  Lady  of  Stoke 
was  well. 

"  Before  long,"  Gilbert  would  answer,  "  I  shall  be 
able  to  go  home  and  see  for  myself. " 

And  at  this  the  abbot   smiled   and  nodded,  and 
began  to  talk  of  the  weather,  which  was  hot. 


VIA   CEUCIS  41 

But  to-day,  since  he  had  been  allowed  to  leave 
his  room,  Gilbert  was  determined  to  force  an  ex 
planation.  It  lacked  yet  an  hour  of  midday  and 
dinner-time  when  the  abbot  came  sauntering  along 
the  cloister,  followed  at  a  respectful  distance  by  a 
couple  of  monks,  who  walked  side  by  side  with 
downcast  eyes  and  hands  hidden  in  their  sleeves, 
their  cord  girdles  bobbing  and  swinging  rhyth 
mically  as  they  walked.  As  he  came  up  to  Gil 
bert,  the  nursing  brother  rose  and  hid  his  hands  in 
his  grey  woollen  sleeves. 

Gilbert  opened  his  eyes  at  the  sound  of  the  abbot's 
footsteps,  and  made  a  movement  as  though  he  would 
have  risen  to  greet  the  lordly  churchman,  who  had  so 
often  visited  him  in  his  room,  and  for  whom  he  felt  a 
natural  sympathy,  as  for  a  man  of  his  own  race  and 
breeding  ;  for  Lambert,  Abbot  of  Sheering,  came  of 
the  great  Norman  house  of  Clare, 'which  had  taken 
Stephen's  side  in  the  Civil  War,  a  fact  which  did  not 
prevent  the  aristocratic  abbot  from  talking  with 
gentle  satire  and  occasional  bitter  sarcasm  about  the 
emptiness  of  Stephen's  claims. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  Gilbert's  sleeve  to  make  him 
keep  his  seat,  and  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  bench. 
He  waved  the  monks  away,  and  they  retired  to  the 
other  end  of  the  cloister,  where  they  all  three  sat 
down  together  in  silence.  The  abbot,  a  delicately 
made  man,  with  high  Norman  features,  a  colourless 
beard,  once  fair,  and  very  bright  blue  eyes,  laid  one 
of  his  beautiful  hands  kindly  upon  Gilbert's. 

"  You  are  saved,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  We  have 
done  our  part ;  youth  and  sunshine  will  do  the 


42  VIA   CRUCIS 

rest ;  you  will  grow  strong  very  quickly,  now,  and  in 
a  week  you  will  be  asking  for  your  horse.  They 
found  him  beside  you,  and  he  has  been  well  cared  for." 

"  Next  week,  then,"  said  Gilbert,  "  I  will  ride  over 
to  Stoke  and  see  my  mother.  But  I  think  I  shall 
come  back  and  stay  with  you  again  —  if  you  will 
have  me." 

Gilbert  smiled  as  he  spoke  the  last  words ;  but  the 
abbot's  face  was  grave  and  his  brows  were  drawn 
together,  as  though  he  were  in  some  trouble. 

"  Better  stay  with  us  altogether,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  head  and  looking  away. 

Gilbert  sat  motionless  for  a  few  seconds,  as  if  the 
remark  had  made  no  impression  upon  him  ;  then, 
realizing  that  the  words  contained  some  special 
meaning,  he  started  slightly  and  turned  his  hollow 
eyes  to  the  speaker's  face. 

"  And  not  go  to  see  my  mother  ? "  His  voice 
expressed  the  utmost  surprise. 

"  Not  —  not  at  present,"  answered  the  abbot,  taken 
off  his  guard  by  the  directness  of  the  question. 

Weak  as  he  was,  Gilbert  half  rose  from  his  seat, 
and  his  thin  fingers  nervously  grasped  his  compan 
ion's  arm.  He  would  have  spoken,  but  a  sort  of 
confusion  came  over  him,  as  if  he  could  not  decide 
which  of  many  questions  to  ask  first,  and  before 
words  could  form  themselves,  the  abbot  was  speak 
ing  to  him  with  gentle  authority. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said  ;  "  sit  quietly  beside  me  and 
hear  what  I  have  to  say,  for  you  are  a  man,  now,  and 
it  is  better  that  you  should  know  it  all  at  once,  and 
from  me,  than  get  it  distorted,  in  miserable  morsels, 


VIA   CKTJCIS  43 

from  the  gossip  of  the  brothers  within  the  next  day 
or  two." 

He  paused  a  moment,  holding  the  young  man's 
hand  soothingly  while  keeping  him  in  his  seat  and 
making  him  feel  that  he  must  stay  there. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Gilbert,  nervously,  with  half 
closed  eyes.  "  Tell  me  quickly." 

"An  evil  thing,"  answered  the  churchman,  "  —  a 
sad  thing,  and  one  of  those  that  change  men's  lives." 

Again  Gilbert  started  in  his  seat,  more  violently 
this  time  than  before,  and  there  was  the  broken  ring 
of  genuine  fear  in  his  voice. 

"  My  mother  is  dead  !  "  he  cried. 

"  No,  not  that.  She  is  in  no  danger.  She  is  well. 
She  is  more  than  well ;  she  is  happy." 

Gilbert  was  staring  almost  stupidly  at  his  com 
panion,  not  in  the  least  understanding  that  there 
could  be  any  evil  news  about  his  mother  if  all  these 
things  were  true. 

And  yet  it  seemed  strange  that  the  abbot  should 
lay  stress  upon  the  Lady  Goda's  happiness,  when 
Gilbert  had  been  at  death's  door  for  many  weeks, 
and  when,  as  he  well  knew,  she  was  without  news  of 
him.  , 

"  Happy  I  "  he  echoed,  half  dazed. 

"Too  happy,"  answered  the  prelate.  "Your 
mother  was  married  when  you  had  been  scarcely 
a  month  here  with  us." 

Gilbert  stared  into  the  older  man's  face  for  one 
moment  after  he  had  ceased  speaking,  and  then  sank 
back  against  the  wall  behind  him  with  something 
between  a  groan  and  a  sigh.  One  word  had  struck 


44  VIA   CRUCIS 

the  ground  from  under  his  feet ;  the  next  was  to 
pierce  his  soul. 

"  Who  is  her  husband  ?  "  he  asked  under  his  breath. 

Before  the  abbot  answered,  his  grasp  tightened 
upon  Gilbert's  hands  with  a  friendly  grip  that  was 
meant  to  inspire  courage. 

"  Your  mother  has  married  Sir  Arnold  de  Curboil." 

Gilbert  sprang  to  his  feet,  as  though  he  had  been 
struck  in  the  face  by  an  enemy.  A  moment  earlier 
he  could  not  have  risen  without  help  ;  a  moment  later 
he  fell  backward  into  the  abbot's  arms. 

Nothing  that  he  had  felt  in  his  whole  short  life  — 
not  all  the  joys  and  fears  of  childhood,  which,  after 
all,  contains  the  greatest  joys  and  fears  in  life,  com 
pounded  with  the  clash  of  his  first  fighting  day  and 
the  shock  of  seeing  his  father  killed  before  his  eyes 
—  not  all  these  together  could  be  compared  with 
what  he  felt  at  that  plain  statement  of  the  dishonour 
done  upon  his  house  and  upon  his  father's  memory. 
Yet  he  was  not  unconscious. 

"Now,  by  the  Sacred  Blood  —  " 

Before  he  could  pronounce  the  solemn  vow  of  re 
venge  that  was  on  his  lips,  the  abbot's  delicate  hand 
was  almost  crushing  his  mouth  with  open  palm  to 
stop  the  words. 

"  Arnold  de  Curboil,  perjured  to  God,  false  to  his 
king,  the  murderer  of  his  friend,  the  seducer  of  his 
friend's  wife,  is  fit  for  my  prayers,"  said  the  abbot, 
"  not  for  your  steel.  Swear  no  great  oaths  that  you 
will  kill  him  ;  still  less  swear  that  you  will  be  avenged 
upon  your  mother  ;  but  if  you  must  needs  swear 
something,  vow  rather  that  you  will  leave  them  to 


VIA  CBUCIS  45 

their  fate  and  never  willingly  cross  their  path  again. 
And  indeed,  whether  you  promise  that  or  not,  you 
must  needs  keep  away  from  them  until  you  can 
claim  your  own  with  the  chance  of  getting  it 
back." 

"  My  own  !  "  exclaimed  Gilbert.  "  Is  Stoke  not 
mine  ?  Am  I  not  my  father's  son  ?  " 

"  Curboil  has  got  Stoke  Regis  by  treachery,  as  he 
got  your  mother.  As  soon  as  he  had  married  her 
he  took  her  with  him  to  London,  and  they  two  did 
homage  to  King  Stephen,  and  the  Lady  Goda  made 
apology  before  the  king's  court  because  her  former 
husband  had  been  faithful  to  the  Empress  Maud  ;  and 
she  besought  the  king  to  bestow  the  lordship  of  Stoke 
Regis,  with  the  manor  house  and  all  things  thereto 
appertaining,  upon  their  present  lord,  Sir  Arnold  de 
Curboil,  disinheriting  you,  her  son,  both  because  you: 
are  true  to  the  Empress,  and  because,  as  she  did 
swear,  you  tried  to  slay  Sir  Arnold  by  stealth  in 
Stortford  woods.  So  you  have  neither  kith  nor  kin, 
nor  lands  nor  goods,  beyond  your  horse  and  your 
sword ;  wherefore  I  say,  it  were  as  well  for  you  to> 
stay  with  us  altogether." 

Gilbert  was  silent  for  some  time  after  the  abbot 
had  ceased  speaking.  He  seemed  to  be  utterly  over 
come  by  the  news  that  he  was  disinherited,  and  his 
hands  lay  upon  his  knees,  loosely  weak  and  expressive 
of  utter  hopelessness.  Very  slowly  he  raised  his  face 
at  last  and  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  only  friend  that 
seemed  left  to  him  in  his  destitution. 

"  So  I  am  an  outcast,"  he  said,  "  an  exile,  a 
beggar  —  " 


46  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  Or  a  monk,"  suggested  the  churchman,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Or  an  adventurer,"  said  Gilbert,  smiling  also,  but 
more  bitterly. 

"Most  of  our  ancestors  were  that,"  retorted  the 
abbot,  "  and  they  have  picked  up  a  fair  living  by 
it,"  he  added.  "  Let  me  see  :  Normandy,  Maine, 
Aquitaine,  Gascony  —  and  England.  Not  a  bad 
inheritance  for  a  handful  of  pirates  matched  against 
the  world." 

"  Yes,  but  the  handful  of  pirates  were  Normans," 
said  Gilbert,  as  if  that  statement  alone  should  have 
explained  the  conquest  of  the  universe.  "But  the 
world  is  half  won,"  he  concluded,  with  a  rather 
hopeless  sigh. 

"  There  is  enough  to  fight  for  yet,"  answered  the 
abbot,  gravely.  "The  Holy  Land  is  not  half  con 
quered,  and  until  all  Palestine  and  Syria  shall  be  one 
Christian  kingdom  under  one  Christian  king,  there 
is  earth  for  Norman  feet  to  tread,  and  flesh  for  Nor 
man  swords  to  hack." 

Gilbert's  expression  changed  a  little,  and  a  light 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"  The  Holy  Land — Jerusalem  ! "  The  words  came 
slowly,  each  with  its  dream.  "  But  the  times  are  too 
old.  Who  should  preach  another  crusade  in  our 
day?" 

"  The  man  whose  word  is  a  lash,  a  sword,  and  a 
crown — the  man  who  rules  the  world  to-day." 

"  And  who  is  that  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"  A  Frenchman,"  answered  the  abbot  —  "  Bernard 
of  Clairvaux,  the  greatest  man,  the  greatest  thinker, 


VIA   CRUCIS  47 

the  greatest  preacher,  and  the  greatest  saint  of  these 
late  days." 

"  I  have  heard  of  him,"  Gilbert  answered,  with  a 
sick  man's  disappointment  at  not  learning  anything 
new.  Then  he  smiled  faintly.  "  If  he  is  a  miracle- 
worker,  he  might  find  me  a  good  subject." 

"You  have  a  home  here,  Gilbert  Warde,  and 
friends,"  said  the  abbot,  gravely.  "  Stay  while  you 
will,  and  when  you  are  ready  for  the  world  again  you 
shall  not  lack  for  a  coat  of  mail,  a  spare  mount,  and  a 
purse  of  gold  with  which  to  begin  your  life." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Gilbert,  feebly,  but  very  grate 
fully.  "  I  feel  as  if  my  life  were  not  beginning,  but 
ending.  I  have  lost  my  inheritance,  my  home,  and 
my  mother  in  one  hour.  It  is  enough,  for  it  is  all, 
and  with  it  is  taken  love  also." 

"  Love  ?  "     The  abbot  seemed  surprised. 

"  Can  a  man  marry  his  mother's  husband's  child?  " 
asked  Gilbert  bitterly,  almost  contemptuously. 

"  No,"  answered  the  abbot ;  "  that  would  be  within 
the  forbidden  degrees  of  affinity." 

For  a  long  time  Gilbert  sat  still  in  mournful 
silence.  Then,  seeing  that  he  was  very  tired,  the  abbot 
beckoned  to  the  brothers,  who  came  and  led  him  back 
to  the  stairs,  and  carried  him  up  to  his  room.  But, 
when  he  was  gone,  the  Abbot  of  Sheering  walked 
thoughtfully  up  and  down  the  cloister  for  a  long 
time,  even  until  the  refectory  bell  began  to  ring  for 
dinner,  and  he  could  hear  the  shuffling  steps  of  the 
two  hundred  hungry  monks  hurrying  to  their  food, 
through  the  distant  staircases  and  corridors. 


CHAPTER  V 

autumn  morning  at  dawn,  the  beach  at 
Dover,  the  tide  at  flood,  and  a  hundred  half  naked 
sailors  launching  a  long,  black  Norman  sea-boat 
bows  on,  over  chocks  through  the  low  surf  to  the  grey 
swell  beyond.  The  little  vessel  had  been  beached  by 
the  stern,  with  a  slack  chain  hooked  to  her  sides  at 
the  water-line,  and  a  long  hawser  rove  through  a 
rough  fiddle-block  of  enormous  size,  and  leading  to 
a  capstan  set  far  above  high-water  mark  and  made 
fast  by  the  bight  of  a  chain  to  an  anchor  buried  in 
the  sand  up  to  the  heavy  wooden  stock.  And  now  a 
big  old  man  with  streaming  grey  beard,  and  a  skin 
like  a  salted  ox-hide,  was  slacking  the  turns  of  the 
hawser  from  the  capstan-drum  as  the  boat  moved 
slowly  down  over  the  well-greased  chocks,  stopping 
short  now  and  then  of  her  own  accord,  and  refusing 
to  move  on  till  twenty  stout  sailors  on  each  side,  their 
legs  half  buried  in  the  sand,  their  broad  shoulders 
flattened  under  the  planking,  their  thick  brown 
hands  planted  upon  their  thighs,  like  so  many 
Atlases,  each  bearing  a  world,  had  succeeded,  by 
alternately  straining  and  yielding,  in  making  the 
little  vessel  rock  on  her  keel,  and  start  again  toward 
the  water's  edge.  On  board,  the  master  stood  at 
the  stern,  ready  to  ship  the  long  rudder  as  soon  as  she 
had  taken  the  water.  Two  men  in  the  bows  took  in 

48 


VIA  CRTJCIS  49 

the  slack  of  the  cable,  by  which  the  anchor  had  been 
dropped  some  fifty  yards  out,  so  as  to  keep  her  he^d 
straight  when  she  should  leave  the  temporary  ways. 
By  the  mast,  for  the  vessel  had  but  one,  stood  Gil 
bert  Warde,  watching  all  that  was  done,  with  the  pro 
foundly  ignorant  interest  which  landsmen  always 
show  in  nautical  matters.  It  seemed  very  slow  to 
him,  and  he  wondered  why  the  man  with  the  long 
beard,  far  up  the  beach,  did  not  let  go,  so  that  the 
boat  might  launch  herself.  And  while  he  was  trying 
to  solve  the  problem,  something  happened  which  he 
could  not  understand :  a  chorus  of  wild  yells  went  up 
from  the  sailors  under  the  sides,  the  master  in  the 
stern  threw  up  one  hand  and  shouted,  the  old  man 
let  go  and  yelled  back  an  answer,  Gilbert  heard  a 
rattling  of  chains,  and  then  all  at  once  the  boat 
gathered  way,  and  shot  like  an  arrow  through  the 
low  curling  surf,  far  out  upon  the  heaving  grey 
water  beyond,  while  the  two  men  in  the  bows  got 
in  the  slack  of  the  cable,  hand  over  hand,  like  mad 
men,  panting  audibly,  till  at  last  the  vessel  swung 
off  by  her  head  and  rode  quietly  at  her  anchor.  An 
hour  later,  with  twenty  sweeps  swinging  rhythmically 
in  the  tholes,  and  a  fair  southwesterly  breeze,  the 
sharp-cut  boat  was  far  out  in  the  English  Channel, 
and  before  night,  the  wind  holding  fair  and  freshen 
ing,  the  master  dropped  anchor  almost  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Count  of  Flanders'  castle  at  Calais. 
So  Gilbert  Warde  left  England,  a  wanderer,  disin 
herited  of  all  that  should  have  been  his,  owing  all 
that  he  had  to  Lambert  de  Clare,  Abbot  of  Sheering, 
in  the  shape  of  mail  and  other  armour,  with  such 


50  VIA   CRUCIS 

fine  clothes  as  a  young  nobleman  should  have  with 
him  on  a  journey,  two  horses,  and  a  purse  of  which 
the  contents  should  last  him  several  months  on  his 
travels.  For  attendants  he  had  with  him  a  fair- 
haired  Saxon  lad  who  had  run  away  from  Stoke  to 
Sheering,  and  had  refused  to  leave  Gilbert,  whom  he 
looked  upon  as  his  lawful  master ;  and  there  was 
with  him,  too,  a  dark -skinned  youth  of  his  own  age, 
a  foundling,  christened  Dunstan  by  the  monks  after 
a  saint  of  their  order,  brought  up  and  taught  at  the 
abbey,  who  seemed  to  know  neither  whose  child  he 
was  nor  whence  he  came,  but  could  by  no  means  be 
induced  to  enter  the  novitiate  so  long  as  the  world 
had  room  for  wanderers  and  adventurers.  He  was  a 
gifted  fellow,  quick  to  learn  and  tenacious  to  remem 
ber,  speaking  Latin  and  Norman  French  and  English 
Saxon  as  well  as  any  monk  in  the  abbey,  quick  of 
hand  and  light  of  foot,  with  daring  black  eyes  in  which 
the  pupils  could  hardly  be  found,  while  the  whites  were 
of  a  cold,  blue  grey  and  often  bloodshot ;  and  he  had 
short,  straight  black  hair,  and  a  face  that  made  one 
think  of  a  young  falcon.  He  had  begged  so  hard  to 
be  allowed  to  go  with  Gilbert,  and  it  was  so  evident 
that  he  was  not  born  to  wear  out  a  church  pavement 
with  his  knees,  that  the  abbot  had  given  his  consent. 
During  the  last  weeks  before  Gilbert's  departure, 
when  he  was  hourly  gaming  strength  and  could  no 
longer  bear  to  be  shut  up  within  the  walls  of  the 
convent,  he  had  made  a  companion  of  Dunstan,  walk 
ing  and  riding  with  him,  for  the  fellow  could  ride, 
and  sometimes  entering  into  long  arguments  with 
him  about  matters  of  belief  and  conscience  and 


VIA   CKUCIS  51 

honour,  and  the  two  had  become  attached  to  each 
other  by  their  unlikeness ;  not  precisely  as  friends 
and  equals,  yet  by  no  means  as  master  and  man ;  it 
was  rather  the  sort  of  relation  which  often  existed 
between  knight  and  squire,  though  the  two  were  of 
the  same  age,  and  though  Gilbert  had  no  immediate 
prospect  of  winning  knightly  spurs. 

It  would  have  been  hard,  however,  to  admit 
that  Dunstan  could  ever  develop  into  a  knight  him 
self.  There  were  strange  little  blanks  in  his  ideas 
of  chivalry,  curious,  unfeeling  spots  in  his  moral 
organization,  which  indicated  another  race,  another 
inheritance  of  thought,  the  traditions  of  a  world 
older  and  less  simple  than  the  one  in  which  Gilbert 
had  been  brought  up. 

For  Gilbert  was  the  type  of  noble  youth  in  the 
days  when  the  light  of  chivalry  had  dawned  upon  an 
age  of  violence,  but  was  not  yet  fully  risen.  God, 
honour,  woman  —  these  made  up  the  simple  trinity 
of  a  knight's  belief  and  reverence,  from  the  moment 
when  the  Church  began  to  make  an  order  of  fighting 
men,  with  ceremonies  and  obligations  of  their  own, 
thereby  forever  binding  together  the  great  concep 
tions  of  true  Christianity  and  true  nobility. 

In  the  absence  of  anything  like  real  learning 
among  the  laymen  of  those  days,  education  in  its 
simplest  and  most  original  sense  played  a  very  large 
part  in  life,  and  Gilbert  had  acquired  that  sort  of 
culture  in  its  highest  and  best  form.  The  object  of 
mere  instruction  is  to  impart  learning  for  some  distinct 
purpose,  but  most  chiefly,  perhaps,  in  order  that  it 
may  be  a  means  of  earning  a  livelihood.  The  object 


52  VIA   CRUCIS 

of  education  is  to  make  men,  to  produce  the  charac 
ter  of  the  man  of  honour,  to  give  men  the  inward 
grace  of  the  gentleman,  which  cannot  manifest  itself 
outwardly  save  in  good  manners,  modesty  of  bearing, 
and  fearlessness ;  and  such  things  in  earlier  days  were 
profoundly  associated  in  the  minds  of  men  with  the 
inward  principles  and  the  outward  rites  of  Christian 
ity.  It  was  the  perfect  simplicity,  and  in  a  measure 
the  ample  harmony,  of  beliefs,  principles,  and  rules  of 
action  that  made  life  possible  at  all  at  a  time  when 
the  modern  art  of  government  was  in  its  earliest 
infancy,  when  the  idea  of  a  constitution  had  been  lost 
in  the  chaos  of  the  dark  ages,  and  when  the  direction 
of  kingdoms,  principalities,  and  societies  was  a  purely 
personal  matter,  wholly  dependent  upon  individual 
talent  or  caprice,  virtue  or  vice,  charity  or  greed. 
Without  some  such  foundation  in  the  character  o£ 
the  times,  society,  the  world,  and  the  Church  must 
have  fallen  a  prey  to  the  devouring  ambitions  of  that 
most  horrible  of  human  monsters,  the  princely  un 
believer  of  the  middle  ages,  who  flourished  again 
and  again,  sporadically,  from  England  to  Con 
stantinople,  from  Paris  to  Rome,  but  who  almost 
invariably  ended  in  disastrous  failure,  overcome  and 
trodden  down  by  the  steadily  advancing  morality 
of  mankind.  Such  men  were  John  the  Twelfth,  of 
the  evil  race  of  Theodora  in  Rome,  and  the  Jewish 
Pierleone  who  lived  a  hundred  years  later,  and  King 
John  of  England,  and  last  and  greatest  of  all,  perhaps, 
as  he  was  most  certainly  the  worst,  Caesar  Borgia. 

To  be  a  gentleman  when  Henry  Plantagenet  was 
a  boy  of  twelve,  and  Gilbert  Warde  was  going  to  the 


Duke  of  Normandy's  court,  implied  not  many  gifts, 
few  principles,  and  two  or  three  accomplishments 
at  most ;  but  it  meant  the  possession  of  those 
simple  requirements  in  their  very  best  accepted 
form,  and  that  species  of  thoroughness  in  a  few 
matters  which  has  been  at  the  root  of  social  superi 
ority  in  all  ages.  We  have  heard  of  amateur  artists, 
amateur  soldiers,  amateur  statesmen  ;  but  no  one 
has  ever  heard  of  an  amateur  gentleman.  Gilbert 
Warde  knew  little  Latin  beyond  the  few  prayers 
taught  him  by  the  manor  priest  at  Stoke  ;  but  in  the 
efficacy  of  those  prayers  he  believed  with  all  his 
heart  and  soul.  The  Norman  French  language  of 
the  nobles  in  England  was  no  longer  that  of  their 
more  refined  cousins  over  the  water ;  but  though  his 
tongue  betrayed  him  for  an  Englishman,  Gilbert  had 
the  something  which  was  of  more  worth  among  his 
equals  than  a  French  accent — the  grace,  the  un 
affected  ease,  the  straightforward  courtesy,  which 
are  bred  in  bone  and  blood,  like  talent  or  genius, 
but  which  reach  perfection  only  in  the  atmosphere 
to  which  they  belong,  and  among  men  and  women 
who  have  them  in  the  same  degree.  Possessing 
belief  and  good  manners,  the  third  essential  was 
skill  in  arms,  and,  as  has  been  seen,  Gilbert  was  a 
match  for  a  swordsman  of  considerable  reputation. 
The  only  absolutely  necessary  accomplishment  for 
a  gentleman  in  his  day  was  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  chase  as  a  fine  art  in  all  its  branches,  from 
falconry  to  boar-hunting,  and  in  this  respect  Gilbert 
was  at  least  the  equal  of  the  average  young  noble. 
In  spite  of  his  youth,  he  was  therefore  thoroughly 


54  VIA   CRUCIS 

equipped  for  the  world  ;  and  besides  the  advantages 
here  set  forth,  he  had  the  very  great  one  of  feeling 
that,  although  he  might  be  going  among  strangers, 
he  was  going  to  meet  men  all  brought  up  to  act  and 
think  like  himself,  in  the  belief  that  their  ways  of 
acting  and  thinking  were  very  much  better  than 
those  of  other  people. 

But  as  he  rode  along  the  dunes,  he  was  not 
reflecting  upon  his  own  gifts  or  prospects.  His  life 
was  strange  to  him  by  its  sudden  and  complete 
change,  from  an  existence  of  more  or  less  peaceful 
enjoyment,  in  which  the  certainty  of  fortune,  local 
dignity,'  and  unthwarted  love  made  the  idea  of 
ambition  look  empty  and  foolish,  to  the  state  of  pos 
sessing  only  a  pair  of  good  horses,  good  weapons,  and 
a  little  ready  money,  with  which  to  lay  siege  to  the 
universe.  Yet  even  that  wide  difference  of  conditions 
was  insignificant  beside  the  deeper  and  sadder  mis 
fortunes  upon  which  the  young  man  brooded  as  he 
rode,  and  which  had  already  embittered  his  young 
existence  by  the  destruction  of  his  highest  and  most 
beautiful  illusion  and  of  his  dearest  and  happiest  hope. 

In  the  fall  of  his  mother's  image  from  the  altar 
upon  which  he  had  set  it,  there  was  the  absolute 
destruction  of  his  own  past  childhood  as  it  had 
always  appeared  to  him.  In  the  fearful  illumination 
of  her  true  nature,  in  the  broad  glare  of  evil,  the 
little  good  there  might  have  been  had  faded  to 
nothing.  It  was  not  possible  that  she  who  had 
married  her  husband's  murderer  within  the  month 
could  ever  have  felt  one  sincere  impulse  of  love  for 
Raymond  Warde,  nor  that  she  could  ever  have 


VIA   CRUCIS  55 

known  the  slightest  real  affection  for  the  son  whom 
she  had  first  left  to  his  fate,  and  then  treacherously 
cheated  of  his  birthright.  The  temple  where  she  had 
been  was  still  in  his  heart  and  mourned  her  in 
emptiness.  For  nothing  else  had  taken  the  place 
of  her  there ;  she  was  not  transformed,  she  was 
gone,  and  had  taken  with  her  a  lifetime  of  tender 
and  gentle  memories.  When  his  inward  eyes  sought 
her  they  found  nothing,  and  their  light  was  quenched 
in  her  darkness.  She  was  not  as  his  father  was, 
dead  in  fact,  but  dead  in  honour.  There  he  lay, 
as  Gilbert  had  last  looked  upon  his  white  face  and 
stiff,  mailed  form,  himself  still,  himself  as  he  had 
been  in  life  and  as  he  was  thereafter,  in  that  place 
of  peace  and  refreshment  where  brave  men  rest.  In 
the  quiet  features  was  reflected  forever  the  truth 
whereby  his  life  had  been  lived  ;  in  the  crossed 
hands  upon  the  breast  was  the  last  outward  symbol 
and  sign  of  the  simple  faith  that  had  been  life's 
guide  ;  in  the  strong,  straight  outlines  of  a  strength 
splendid  in  death  was  the  record  of  strong  deeds 
well  done.  Alive,  he  had  been  to  his  son  the  man 
of  all  others ;  dead,  he  was  still  the  man  of  men, 
without  peer  and  without  like.  It  mattered  not 
that  he  was  silent,  for  he  had  spoken  the  truth ; 
that  he  was  as  motionless  as  a  stone,  for  the  cold 
hand  had  been  swift  to  thrust  and  smite,  and  had 
dealt  unforgotten  blows  in  a  good  cause  ;  that  he 
was  deaf,  for  he  had  heard  the  cry  of  the  weak, 
and  had  forborne  ;  that  he  was  blind,  for  his  eyes 
had  seen  the  light  of  victory  and  had  looked  unflinch 
ing  upon  an  honourable  death.  Loyal,  true,  brave, 


56  VIA   CRUCIS 

strong,  he  lay  in  his  son's  heart,  still  at  all  points 
himself.  And  Gilbert  turned  his  mind's  eyes  to 
the  darkness  on  the  other  side,  and  many  a  time, 
as  the  unwept  tears  burned  in  his  brain,  he  wished 
that  his  mother  were  lying  there  too,  beside  his 
father,  dead  in  the  body  but  alive  forever  to  him  in 
that  which  is  undying  in  woman ;  to  be  cherished 
still,  still  honoured  ;  to  be  loved,  and  still  obeyed 
in  the  memory  of  precept  and  teaching  ;  to  be  his 
mother  always,  and  he  to  be  in  thought  her  child, 
even  until  the  grey  years  should  be  upon  him,  and 
the  Bridge  of  Fear  in  sight. 

Instead,  as  his  thoughts  went  back  to  his  home, 
the  woman  herself  faced  him,  not  as  he  had  always 
seen  her,  but  as  she  had  been  sometimes  seen  by 
others.  The  deed  she  had  done — the  greatest,  the 
worst,  the  most  irrevocable  —  was  in  her  face,  and 
Gilbert's  unconscious  memory  brought  back  the  de 
tails  his  love  of  her  had  once  rejected.  The  cold  face 
was  as  hard  as  flint,  the  deep  blue  eyes  were  untrue 
and  unbelieving,  the  small  red  lips  were  scornfully 
parted  to  show  the  cruel  little  teeth,  and  there  were 
dashes  of  flame  in  the  russet  hair.  Better  she  had 
been  dead,  better  a  thousand  times  that  she  had 
come  to  the  sharp  end  before  her  time,  than  that  such 
a  face  should  be  her  son's  only  memory  of  his  mother. 

The  lines  of  the  image  had  been  etched  in  the 
weak  places  of  his  heart  with  the  keen  point  of  his 
first  grief,  and  the  biting  acid  of  a  new  and 
unnatural  hate  was  eating  them  deeper  day  by 
day.  And  when,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  mind 
dwelt  upon  her  and  understood  that  he  was  curs- 


VIA   CRTJCIS  57 

ing  her  who  had  borne  him,  he  turned  back  in  sheer 
despair  to  the  thought  of  a  religious  life. 

But  though  it  drew  him  and  appealed  to  all  in  his 
nature  which  had  been  uppermost  when  death  had 
almost  tripped  him  into  his  grave,  it  spoke  but  half 
a  language  now,  and  was  less  than  half  convincing. 
He  could  understand  well  enough  that  the  monas 
tery  might  hold  the  only  life  for  men  who  had 
fought  through  many  failures,  from  light  to  dark 
ness,  from  happiness  to  sorrow  —  men  who  loved 
nothing,  hoped  nothing,  hated  nothing  any  longer, 
in  the  great  democracy  of  despair.  They  sought 
peace  as  the  only  earthly  good  they  might  enjoy, 
and  there  was  peace  in  the  cloister.  Hope  being 
dead  in  life,  they  tasted  refreshment  in  the  hope  of 
a  life  to  come.  The  convent  was  good  enough  for 
the  bankrupt  of  love  and  war.  But  there  must  be 
another  rule  for  those  in  whom  youth  was  wounded 
but  not  dead,  whose  hearts  were  offended  but  not 
slain,  whose  blood  was  still  strong  and  hot  for  good 
and  evil,  for  men  whose  battles  were  before  them 
still.  There  must  be  a  remedy  against  fate  which 
should  not  be  an  offence  to  God,  a  struggle  against 
God's  will  which  should  not  be  a  revolt,  a  life  in 
which  virtue  should  not  mean  a  prison  for  soul  and 
body,  nor  the  hope  of  salvation  a  friar's  cell. 

Like  many  enthusiasts,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
world  save  by  guesswork,  and  full  of  an  inborn 
belief  in  the  existence  of  perfection,  Gilbert  dreamed 
of  realizing  the  harmony  of  two  opposites  —  the  re 
ligious  life  and  the  life  of  the  world.  Such  dreams 
seemed  not  so  wild  in  those  days,  when  the  very 


58  VIA   CRUCIS 

idea  of  knighthood  was  based  upon  them,  and  when 
many  brave  and  true  men  came  near  to  making 
them  seem  anything  but  fanciful,  and  practised  vir 
tue  in  a  rough-and-ready  fashion  which  would  not 
pass  muster  in  modern  society,  though  it  might  in 
heaven.  The  religious  idea  had  taken  hold  of  Gil 
bert  strongly,  and  before  he  had  left  the  abbey  he 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  attending  most  of  the 
offices  in  the  choir,  still  wearing  the  novice's  frock 
which  had  been  at  first  but  an  invalid's  robe.  And 
now  that  he  was  out  in  the  world  to  seek  his  fortunes, 
tunic  and  hose,  spur  and  glove,  seemed  strange  to 
him,  and  he  would  have  felt  more  at  home  in  a 
friar's  hood.  So  he  felt  that  in  his  life  he  should 
never  again  quite  lose  the  monastic  instinct,  and 
that  it  was  well  for  him  that  he  could  not.  He 
stood  on  that  perilous  thin  ridge  between  past  and 
future  to  which  almost  every  man  of  heart  is  sooner 
or  later  led  by  fate,  where  every  step  may  mea'u  a 
fall,  and  where  to  fall  is  almost  to  be  lost.  The 
things  he  had  lived  for,  the  things  he  had  hoped, 
the  things  he  had  loved,  had  been  taken  from  him 
violently,  and  all  at  once.  There  was  neither  clue, 
nor  guide,  nor  hope,  and  on  each  side  of  him  yawned 
the  hideous  attraction  of  despair.  Even  the  recol 
lections  of  a  first  love  were  veiled  by  what  he 
understood  to  be  the  irrevocable  interdiction  of  the 
Church,  and,  in  his  strongly  spiritual  mood,  to  think 
of  Beatrix  appeared  to  him  like  a  temptation  to 
mortal  sin. 

In  leaving  England,  without  any  definite  aim,  but 
with  a  vague  intention  of  making  his  way  to  Jeru- 


VIA   CBUCIS  59 

salem,  he  had  obeyed  the  Abbot  of  Sheering  rathei 
than  followed  friendly  advice,  and  his  obedience 
had  savoured  strongly  of  the  monastic  rule.  Lam 
bert  de  Clare,  a  man  of  the  world  before  he  had  be 
come  a  churchman,  and  a  man  of  heart  before  he  was 
a  ruler  of  monks,  had  understood  Gilbert's  state  well 
enough,  and  had  forced  the  best  remedy  upon  him. 
The  cure  for  a  broken  heart,  if  there  be  any,  is  not  in 
solitude  and  prayer,  but  in  facing  the  wounds  and  stings 
of  the  world's  life  ;  and  the  abbot  had  almost  forcibly 
thrust  his  young  friend  out  to  live  like  other  men  ol 
his  order,  while  suggesting  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy 
Land  as  a  means  of  satisfying  his  religious  cravings. 
As  for  the  material  help  which  Gilbert  had  re 
ceived,  it  was  no  shame,  in  an  age  not  sordid,  for  a 
penniless  gentleman  to  accept  both  gifts  and  money 
from  a  rich  and  powerful  person  like  the  Abbot  of 
Sheering,  in  the  certainty  of  carving  out  such  fortune 
with  his  own  hands  as  should  enable  him  amply  to 
repay  the  loan.  So  far  as  his  immediate  destination 
was  concerned,  the  abbot,  who  considered  his  house 
to  be  vastly  superior  to  political  dissension,  and 
secretly  laughed  at  his  cousins  for  supporting  King 
Stephen's  upstart  cause,  had  advised  Gilbert  to  make 
his  way  directly  to  the  court  of  Geoffrey  Plantagenet, 
Duke  of  Normandy,  and  Grand  Seneschal  of  France, 
the  husband  of  the  Empress  Maud,  rightful  Queen  of 
England.  Thither  he  was  riding,  therefore,  with 
Dunstan  on  his  left  hand,  mounted  upon  his  second 
horse,  while  Alric,  the  sturdy  little  Saxon  groom  and 
archer,  rode  behind  them  on  a  stout  mule  laden  with 
Gilbert's  possessions. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THOSE  were  the  early  days  of  Geoffrey's  lordship 
in  Normandy.  Twice  and  three  times  he  came 
up  from  Anjou  with  his  men-at-arms  and  his  foot 
men  to  take  possession  of  his  wife's  lawful  inherit 
ance.  Again  and  again  he  was  repulsed  and  driven 
back  to  his  own  dominions,  but  at  the  last  he  pre. 
vailed,  and  the  iron  will  of  the  man  whose  royal  race 
was  to  give  England  fourteen  kings,  forced  Normandy 
to  submission,  and  thereafter  he  ruled  in  peace.  Yet 
he  was  not  so  strongly  established  but  that  he  desired 
sound  friendships  and  strong  alliances  to  support  him, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  was  anxious  to  obtain  help 
for  his  wife  in  her  prolonged  struggle  for  the  English 
crown.  In  his  office  of  Grand  Seneschal  of  France 
he  generally  caused  himself  to  be  represented  by  a 
deputy  ;  but  he  had  lately  determined  to  make  a 
journey  to  Paris,  in  the  hope  of  winning  over  the 
young  King  Louis,  and  perhaps  the  beautiful  Queen 
Eleanor,  who  was  feudal  sovereign,  in  her  own  right, 
of  Guienne,  Poitou  and  Aquitaine,  and  in  reality  a 
more  powerful  personage  than  the  King  himself. 

So  it  fell  out  that  before  Gilbert  reached  his 
destination  he  met  a  great  and  splendid  train  riding 
toward  him  on  the  highroad,  two  hundred  horse,  at 
the  very  least,  and  as  many  footmen,  followed  by  a 
long  line  of  sumpter  mules.  The  road  was  narrow  at 

60 


VIA  CRUCIS  61 

that  place,  so  that  Gilbert,  with  his  two  men,  saw  that 
it  would  be  impossible  to  pass,  and  though  it  was  not 
natural  to  him  to  cede  the  right  of  way  to  any  one, 
he  understood  that,  in  the  face  of  what  was  a  little 
army,  it  would  be  the  part  of  wisdom  to  draw  aside. 
A  thick  growth  of  thorn  bushes  made  a  natural 
hedge  at  that  part  of  the  road,  and  Gilbert  and  his 
companions  were  obliged  almost  to  back  into  the 
briers,  as  four  handsomely  dressed  outriders  trotted 
past  abreast,  not  without  a  glance  of  rather  super 
cilious  inquiry,  for  they  did  not  fail  to  see  that 
Gilbert  was  a  stranger  in  their  country  ;  and,  for 
a  traveller,  his  retinue  was  anything  but  impos 
ing.  He,  however,  barely  glanced  at  them  as  they 
passed  him,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  advanc 
ing  cavalcade,  a  river  of  rich  and  splendid  colour 
flowing  toward  him  between  soft  green  banks.  They 
were  men  who  rode  in  peace  ;  for  though  a  standard 
rose  in  the  middle  rank,  it  was  furled  and  cased  in 
leather,  and  the  horsemen  who  surrounded  it  were 
dressed  in  tunic  and  hose  —  crimson,  green,  rich  dark 
brown,  with  the  glint  of  gold,  the  sheen  of  silver, 
the  lightning  of  steel,  relieving  the  deep  hues  of 
dark  cloth  and  velvet  here  and  there. 

A  length  behind  the  furled  flag  rode  a  man  and  a 
boy,  side  by  side,  and  the  next  riders  followed  two 
or  three  lengths  behind  them.  The  man,  mounted 
on  a  huge  white  Norman  weight-carrier,  kept  the 
off  side  of  the  road,  his  great  beast  trotting  leisurely 
with  a  long  pounding  step,  and  an  occasional  lazy 
shake  of  the  big  white  head  with  the  iron-grey  fore 
lock  and  the  well-combed  mane.  The  rider  sat 


62  VIA  CKTJCIS 

square  and  upright  in  the  saddle,  the  plain  leathern 
bridle  neither  too  short  nor  too  long  in  the  light 
strong  hand,  that  just  moved  perceptibly  with  the 
horse's  step.  He  was  a  man  evidently  of  good  height, 
but  not  over  tall,  of  surpassing  beauty  of  form,  young 
in  figure,  but  past  middle  age  if  one  judged  by  his 
hard  features  and  already  furrowed  brow ;  his  deep 
grey  eyes  looked  steadily  ahead  from  beneath  black 
eyebrows  which  contrasted  oddly  with  hair  that  was 
already  iron-grey.  There  was  something  immovable 
and  fateful  about  the  clean-shaven  jaw,  the  broad  flat 
chin,  the  wide  strong  mouth  —  something  strangely 
durable  that  contrasted  with  the  rich  softness  of  his 
splendid  dress,  as  though  the  man,  and  what  the  man 
meant,  were  to  outlive  the  fashions  of  the  world. 

The  boy  who  rode  by  his  near  side,  a  lad  of  little 
more  than  twelve  years,  was  both  like  him  and 
unlike.  Sturdy,  broad,  short-legged,  square  beyond 
his  age,  any  one  could  see  that  he  was  never  to 
inherit  his  father's  beauty  of  proportion  and  grace 
of  bearing ;  but  there  was  something  in  his  face 
that  promised  all  his  father's  strength  and  an  even 
greater  independence.  The  grey  eyes  were  the  same, 
but  nearer  together,  and  almost  sinister  in  their  gaze, 
even  at  that  age  ;  the  nose  was  already  long  and 
rather  flat  than  sharp,  and  the  large  straight  lips, 
even  and  close  set,  would  have  seemed  strong  even 
in  a  grown  man's  face.  The  boy  sat  upon  his  small 
grey  Andalusian  horse  as  if  he  had  lived  a  lifetime 
in  the  saddle,  but  his  twelve-year-old  hand  was 
heavier  on  the  bridle  than  ever  his  father's  had  been. 

There  was  something  in  the  bearing  of  the  two, 


VIA   CRTJCIS  63 

father  and  son,  so  kingly  and  high  that  Gilbert,  who 
had  been  brought  up  in  Norman  courtesy,  involun 
tarily  rose  in  the  saddle  as  much  as  his  long  stirrups 
would  allow,  and  lifted  his  cap  from  his  head,  sup 
posing,  as  was  natural,  that  he  was  saluting  the  lord 
of  the  lands  through  which  he  was  travelling.  The 
other  returned  the  salutation  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  looked  sharply  at  Gilbert,  and  then,  to  the  lat- 
ter's  surprise,  drew  rein,  the  lad  beside  him  ranging 
back  half  a  length  so  as  not  to  be  in  the  way  between 
the  other  two.  For  a  few  seconds  neither  said  a 
vord.  Then  the  elder  man,  as  though  expecting 
something  of  which  the  younger  was  not  aware, 
smiled  kindly  and  spoke.  His  voice  was  strong  and 
manly,  but  clear  and  sweet. 

"  You  are  strange  here,  sir,"  he  said,  with  some 
thing  more  like  an  assertion  than  a  question  in  his 
turn. 

"From  England,  sir,"  answered  Gilbert,  bowing 
slightly  in  the  saddle. 

The  elder  man  looked  hard  at  him  and  knit  his 
brows.  Few  English  gentlemen  had  refused  alle 
giance  to  King  Stephen. 

"  From  England  ?  And  what  may  you  be  doing 
in  Normandy,  young  sir?  Stephen's  friends  find 
little  friendship  here." 

"  I  am  not  of  them,  sir,"  answered  Gilbert,  draw 
ing  himself  up  somewhat  haughtily.  "  I  am  rather 
of  those  who  would  shorten  Stephen's  reign  by  the 
length  of  his  life,  and  his  body  by  a  head." 

The  broad,  handsome  face  of  the  man  with  whom 
he  was  speaking  relaxed  into  a  smile,  and  his  son, 


64  VIA   CRUCIS 

who  had  at  first  eyed  Gilbert  with  distrust,  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"  Then  I  suppose  that  you  are  for  the  Empress," 
said  the  man.  "  But  if  you  are,  why  are  you  not 
in  Gloucester  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  answered  Gilbert,  "  being  made  homeless 
and  landless  by  Stephen,  I  chose  rather  to  cut  a  for 
tune  out  of  the  world  than  to  beg  one  of  the  Queen, 
who  has  none  left  to  give." 

"  You  could  fight  for  her,"  suggested  the  other. 

"  Ay,  sir ;  and  I  have,  and  will  again,  if  such  gentle 
men  of  Normandy  as  you  will  cross  the  water  and 
fight  also.  But  as  the  matter  stands  to-day,  whoso 
ever  shall  break  the  truce  shall  break  his  own  neck, 
without  serving  the  Empress.  And  meanwhile  I 
ride  to  the  Duke  of  Normandy's  court,  and  if  I  may 
serve  him,  I  will,  but  if  not,  I  shall  go  farther." 

"  And  who  are  you,  sir,  that  seek  the  Duke  ?  " 

"  I  am  Gilbert  Warde,  and  my  fathers  held  Stoke 
Regis  in  Hertfordshire  from  Duke  William.  But 
Stephen  took  it  when  I  was  lying  ill  of  a  wound  in 
Sheering  Abbey  and  bestowed  it  upon  another.  And 
you,  sir?  I  crave  your  name." 

"  Geoffrey  Plantagenet,"  answered  the  Duke, 
quietly.  "  And  this  is  my  son  Henry,  who  by 
the  grace  of  God  shall  yet  be  King  of  England." 

Gilbert  started  at  the  name,  and  then  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  both  father  and  son  wore  in  their 
velvet  caps  a  short  dry  sprig  of  the  broom-plant. 
He  sprang  to  the  ground  and  came  forward  on 
foot,  bareheaded,  and  stood  beside  the  Duke's  neat 
stirrup. 


VIA  CKUCIS  65 

c<  Your  pardon,  my  lord,"  lie  said ;  "  I  should  have 
known  you." 

"  That  might  have  been  hard,"  answered  Geoffrey, 
"  since  you  had  never  seen  me.  But  as  you  were  on 
your  way  to  find  me  and  wished  to  serve  me,  mount 
again  and  ride  with  us  to  Paris,  whither  we  go." 

So  Gilbert  mounted,  and  would  have  fallen  back 
in  the  train  among  the  young  squires,  behind  the  five 
ranks  of  knights  who  rode  after  the  Duke.  But 
Geoffrey  would  not  let  him  take  his  place  at  once, 
for  he  was  glad  to  have  news  of  the  long  struggle 
in  England,  the  end  of  which  was  to  set  a  Plantage- 
net  upon  the  throne  ;  and  he  asked  many  questions 
which  the  young  man  answered  as  well  as  he  could, 
though  some  of  them  were  not  easy  ;  and  the  boy 
Henry  listened  with  grave  face  and  unwinking  eyes 
to  all  that  was  said. 

"  If  I  had  been  in  my  mother's  place,"  he  said  at 
last,  in  a  pause, "  I  would  have  cut  off  Stephen's  head 
in  Bristol  Castle." 

"  And  let  your  uncle  Gloucester  be  put  to  death 
by  Stephen's  wife  ? "  Geoffrey  looked  at  his  son 
curiously. 

"  She  would  not  have  done  it,"  answered  Henry. 
"  There  could  have  been  no  more  war,  with  Stephen 
dead.  But  if  she  had  killed  my  uncle,  well,  what  of 
that  ?  The  crown  of  England  is  worth  one  life,  at 
least !  " 

Gilbert  heard  and  wondered  at  the  boy's  hardness, 
but  held  his  peace.  He  was  surprised  also  that  the 
Duke  should  say  nothing,  and  the  speech  of  the  one 
and  the  silence  of  the  other  clearly  foreshadowed  the 


66  VIA   CBUCIS 

kingdom  for  one  or  both.  But  the  boy's  words 
seemed  heartless  and  not  altogether  knightly  to 
Warde,  who  was  himself  before  all  things  a  man  of 
heart ;  and  the  first  impression  made  on  him  by  the 
precocious  lad  was  more  or  less  a  wrong  one,  since 
Henry  afterwards  turned  out  a  just  and  kind  man, 
though  often  stern  and  unforgetful  of  offence.  And 
Gilbert  was  very  far  from  guessing  that  the  young 
prince  was  suddenly  attracted  to  him  in  the  strongest 
possible  way,  and  that  in  the  first  meeting  he  had 
unconsciously  laid  the  foundations  of  a  real  friend 
ship. 

After  a  time,  as  the  Duke  asked  no  more  questions, 
Gilbert  took  it  for  granted  that  he  was  no  longer 
wanted,  and  fell  back  to  his  proper  place  among  the 
riders.  The  young  squires  received  him  with  cor 
diality  and  not  without  a  certain  respect  for  one 
who,  though  not  even  a  knight,  had  been  so  much 
honoured  by  their  sovereign.  And  Gilbert  himself, 
though  he  felt  at  home  amongst  them  at  first,  as  a  man 
feels  with  his  own  kind,  yet  felt  that  he  was  divided 
from  them  by  the  depth  of  his  own  misfortunes. 
One  of  them  spoke  of  his  home  at  Bayeux,  and  of  his 
father,  and  Gilbert's  face  grew  grave  ;  another  told 
how  his  mother  had  herself  embroidered  in  gold  the 
fine  linen  collar  that  showed  above  his  low-cut  tunic. 
Gilbert  bit  his  lips,  and  looked  away  at  the  rolling 
green  country.  And  one,  again,  asked  Gilbert  where 
his  home  might  be. 

"  Here,"  answered  Warde,  striking  the  pommel  of 
his  saddle  with  his  right  hand  and  laughing  rather 
harshly. 


VIA   CRUCIS  67 

He  was  older  than  most  of  them,  for  they  ranged 
from  fourteen  to  eighteen  years,  and  were  chiefly 
beardless  boys  who  had  never  seen  fight,  whose 
fathers  had  fought  Geoffrey  Plantagenet  until  they 
had  recognized  that  he  was  the  master,  as  the  great 
Duke  William  had  been  in  his  day,  and  then,  being 
beaten,  had  submitted  whole-heartedly  and  all  at 
once,  as  brave  men  do,  and  had  forthwith  sent  their 
sons  to  learn  arms  and  manners  at  Geoffrey's  court. 
So  none  of  these  youths  had  slain  a  man  with  his 
own  hand,  as  Gilbert  had  at  Faringdon,  nor  had 
any  of  them  faced  an  enemy  with  plain  steel  in  a 
quarrel,  as  Gilbert  had  faced  Sir  Arnold  de  Cur- 
boil.  Though  Gilbert  told  little  of  his  story  and 
less  of  his  deeds,  they  saw  that  he  was  older  than 
they,  they  felt  that  he  had  seen  more  than  they  had, 
and  they  guessed  that  his  hand  was  harder  and 
heavier  than  theirs. 

As  the  day  wore,  and  they  rode,  and  halted,  and 
dined  together  in  the  vast  outer  hall  of  a  monastery 
which  they  reached  soon  after  midday,  the  young 
men  who  sat  beside  Gilbert  noticed  that  he  could 
repeat  the  Latin  words  of  the  long  grace  as  well 
as  any  monk,  and  one  laughed  and  asked  where  he 
had  got  so  much  scholarship. 

"  I  lay  two  months  in  an  abbey,"  answered  Gilbert, 
"  healing  of  a  wound,  and  the  nursing  brother  taught 
me  the  monks'  ways." 

"And  how  came  you  by  such  a  wound?"  asked 
the  young  squire. 

"  By  steel,"  answered  Gilbert,  and  smiled,  but  he 
would  say  no  more. 


68  VIA   CBUCIS 

And  after  that,  two  or  three  asked  questions  of 
Gilbert's  man  Dunstan,  and  he,  being  proud  of  his 
master,  told  all  he  knew,  so  that  his  hearers 
marvelled  that  such  a  fighter  had  not  yet  obtained 
knighthood,  and  they  foretold  that  if  Long  Gilbert, 
as  they  named  him  for  his  height,  would  stay  in  the 
Duke's  service,  he  should  not  be  a  squire  many 
weeks. 

And  on  the  next  day  and  the  days  following  it 
was  clear  to  them  all  that  Gilbert  was  in  the  way 
of  fortune  by  the  hand  of  favour  ;  for  as  the  com 
pany  rode  along  in  the  early  morning  by  dewy 
lanes,  where  Michaelmas  daisies  were  blooming,  a 
groom  came  riding  back  to  say  that  the  young 
Henry  —  the  Count,  as  they  began  to  call  him  about 
that  time  —  wished  the  company  of  Master  Warde, 
to  tell  him  more  of  England.  So  Gilbert  cantered 
forward  and  took  his  place  beside  the  young  prince, 
and  for  more  than  an  hour  answered  questions  of 
all  sorts  about  English  men,  English  trees,  English 
cattle,  and  English  dogs. 

"  It  will  all  be  mine  before  long,"  said  the  boy, 
laughing,  "but  as  I  have  never  seen  it,  I  want  your 
eyes." 

And  every  day  thereafter,  in  the  morning  and 
afternoon,  Gilbert  was  sent  for  to  tell  the  lad  stories 
about  England ;  and  he  talked  as  if  he  were  speaking 
to  a  grown  man  and  said  many  things  about  his  own 
country  which  had  long  been  in  his  heart,  in  the 
strong,  good  language  of  a  man  in  earnest.  Henry 
listened,  and  asked  questions,  and  listened  again,  and 
remembered  what  he  heard,  not  for  a  day  only,  nor 


VIA   CRUCIS  69 

a  week,  but  for  a  lifetime,  and  in  the  boy  the  king 
was  growing  hour  by  hour. 

Sometimes,  while  they  talked,  the  Duke  listened 
and  said  a  few  words  himself,  but  more  often  he 
rode  on  out  of  the  train  alone,  in  deep  thought,  or 
called  one  of  the  older  knights  to  his  side  ;  and  when 
Gilbert's  quick  ear  caught  fragments  of  their  conver 
sation,  they  were  generally  talking  of  country  mat 
ters —  crops,  horse-breeding,  or  the  price  of  grain. 

So  they  rode,  and  in  due  time  they  came  to  fields 
of  mud  left  by  a  subsiding  river,  and  here  and  there 
green  hillocks  rose  out  of  the  dreary  expanse,  and 
on  them  were  built  castles  of  grey  stone.  But 
in  the  flats  there  were  mud  hovels  of  brickmakers 
and  of  people  living  miserably  by  the  river;  and 
then  all  at  once  the  ground  rose  a  little  to  the 
bank,  with  a  street,  and  houses  of  brick  and  stone ; 
and  between  these,  upon  an  island,  Gilbert,  rising 
in  his  stirrups  to  see  over  the  heads  of  his  com 
panions,  descried  the  castle  of  the  King  of  France, 
with  its  towers  and  battlements,  its  great  draw 
bridge,  and  its  solid  grey  walls,  in  those  days  one 
of  the  strongest  holds  in  all  the  world. 

Then  they  all  halted,  and  the  Duke's  herald  rode 
forward  to  the  gate,  and  the  King's  herald  was  seen 
within,  and  there  was  a  great  blowing  of  horns  and 
a  sound  of  loud,  high  voices  reciting  formal  speeches 
in  a  monotone.  After  that  there  was  a  silence,  and 
horns  again,  and  more  recitation,  and  a  final  blast, 
after  which  the  Duke's  herald  came  back,  and  the 
King's  herald  came  out  upon  the  drawbridge,  followed 
by  men  in  rich  clothes  of  white  cloth,  embroidered 


70  VIA   CRUCIS 

with  gold  lilies  that  shone  in  the  autumn  sun,  like 
little  tongues  of  flame  ;  and  the  Duke's  standard  was 
unfurled  to  the  river  breeze,  and  the  goodly  train 
rode  slowly  over  the  drawbridge  at  the  end  of  the 
solid  wooden  causeway  which  spanned  the  main 
width  of  the  stream,  and  so,  by  the  main  gate,  into 
the  great  court  of  honour.  And  Gilbert  rode  close 
behind  young  Henry,  who  called  him  his  chancel 
lor  in  jest,  and  would  not  let  him  ride  out  of  his 
sight. 

Within  the  court  were  great  buildings  reared 
against  the  outer  walls ;  but  in  the  midst  was  the 
King's  hall  and  dwelling,  and  in  the  porch  at 
the  head  of  the  steps  which  led  to  the  main  door, 
the  King  and  Queen  were  waiting  in  state,  in  their 
robes  of  ceremony,  with  all  their  household  about 
them,  to  receive  their  Grand  Seneschal  and  brother 
sovereign,  Geoffrey  Plantagenet.  But  Gilbert,  look 
ing  boldly  before  him,  saw  that  the  King  of  France 
was  a  fair,  pale  man  with  a  yellow  beard,  strong  and 
knightly,  but  with  dull  and  lifeless  blue  eyes ;  and 
Gilbert  looked  at  the  lady  who  sat  beside  him,  and 
he  saw  that  the  Queen  of  France  was  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world;  and  when  his  eyes 
had  seen  her  it  was  long  before  he  looked  away. 

He  saw  a  being  so  unlike  all  he  had  known  before, 
that  his  idea  of  woman  changed  from  that  hour  for 
his  whole  life — a  most  perfect  triplicity  of  beauty, 
grace  and  elastic  strength.  Some  have  doubtless 
possessed  each  separate  perfection,  but  the  names  of 
those  who  had  all  three  are  as  unforgotten  as  those 
of  conquerors  and  supreme  poets.  Gilbert's  eyes 


VIA  CRUCIS  11 

fixed  themselves,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  in  a  sort 
of  waking  trance,  during  which  he  could  not  for  his 
life  have  described  one  feature  of  the  Queen's  face ; 
but  when  she  spoke  to  him,  his  heart  leapt  and  his 
eyelids  quivered,  and  her  image  was  fixed  upon  his 
memory  forever.  Young  though  he  was,  it  would 
have  been  contrary  to  his  grave  and  rather  melan 
choly  disposition  to  lose  his  heart  at  first  sight  to  any 
woman,  and  it  was  neither  love,  nor  love's  forerunner, 
that  overcame  him  as  he  gazed  at  the  Queen.  It  was 
a  purely  visual  impression,  like  that  of  being  dazzled 
by  a  bright  light,  or  made  giddy  by  sudden  motion. 

She  was  as  tall  as  the  King,  but  whereas  he  was 
heavily  and  awkwardly  built,  her  faultless  proportion 
made  an  ungraceful  movement  an  impossibility,  and 
the  rhythmic  ease  of  her  slightest  gesture  expressed 
an  unfaltering  bodily  energy  which  no  sudden  fatigue 
nor  stress  of  long  weariness  could  bring  down.  When 
she  moved,  Gilbert  wished  that  he  might  never  see 
her  in  repose,  yet  as  soon  as  the  motion  ceased,  it 
seemed  a  crime  upon  beauty  to  disturb  her  rest. 

Her  face  and  her  throat,  uncovered  to  the  strong 
morning  light,  were  of  a  texture  as  richly  clear  as 
the  tinted  leaves  of  young  orange-blossoms  in  May ; 
and  like  the  flowers  themselves,  it  seemed  to  rejoice 
in  air  and  sun,  in  dew  and  rain,  perfected,  not  marred, 
by  the  touch  of  heat  and  cold.  The  straight  white 
throat  rose  like  a  column  from  the  neck  to  the 
delicate  lobe  of  the  faultless  ear,  and  a  generously 
modelled  line  sprang  in  a  clean  curve  of  beauty  to  the 
sudden  rounding  of  the  ivory  chin,  cleft  in  the  midst 
by  nature's  supreme  touch.  Low  on  her  forehead 


T2 

the  heavy  waves  of  her  hair  were  drawn  back  to 
each  side  under  the  apple-green  silk  cover  chief  that 
was  kept  in  place  by  the  crown  of  state.  But  she 
wore  no  wimple,  and  the  broad  waves  flowed  down 
upon  her  shoulders  and  hung  behind  her  like  a 
heavy  mantle.  And  they  were  of  that  marvellous 
living  hue,  that  the  westering  sun  casts  through 
oak  leaves  upon  an  ancient  wall  in  autumn.  All 
in  her  face  was  of  light,  from  her  hair  to  her 
white  forehead;  from  her  forehead  to  her  radiant 
eyes,  deeper  than  sapphires,  brighter  than  mountain 
springs;  from  the  peach-blossom  bloom  of  her  cheeks 
to  the  living  coral  of  her  lips. 

She  wore  a  close-fitting  upper  garment  of  fine  green 
cloth,  embroidered  with  a  small  design  in  silver 
thread,  in  which  the  heraldic  cross  of  Aquitaine 
alternated  with  a  conventional  flower.  The  girdle  of 
fine  green  leather,  richly  embroidered  in  gold,  followed 
exactly  the  lower  line  of  this  close  garment  round 
the  hips,  and  the  long  end  fell  straight  from  the  knot 
almost  to  the  ground.  The  silken  skirt  in  many  folds 
was  of  the  same  colour  as  the  rest,  but  without  em 
broidery.  The  mantle  of  state,  of  a  figured  cloth 
of  gold  lined  with  straw-coloured  silk,  hung  in  wide 
folds  from  her  shoulders,  her  hair  falling  over  it,  and 
it  was  loosely  held  in  place  by  a  twisted  cord  of  gold 
thread  across  her  breast.  Contrary  to  the  fashion 
of  the  day,  her  sleeves  were  tight  and  closed  at  the 
wrists,  and  green  gloves  encased  her  hands,  and  were 
embroidered  on  the  back  with  the  cross  of  Aquitaine. 

Gilbert  was  standing  two  steps  behind  young 
Henry,  who  was  on  his  father's  left,  and  was  con- 


VIA   CEUCIS  73 

sequently  directly  opposite  to  the  Queen,  as  the  boy 
bent  one  knee,  and  taking  her  gloved  hand,  touched 
the  embroidery  with  his  lips.  Gilbert  was  hardly 
aware  that  she  was  looking  into  his  eyes,  while  his 
own  were  riveted  on  her  face,  and  when  she  spoke, 
he  started  in  surprise. 

"  And  who  is  this  ?  "  she  asked,  smiling,  as  she  saw 
what  an  effect  her  beauty  produced  upon  the  young 
man. 

Henry  turned  half  round,  with  a  step  backward, 
and  took  Gilbert's  hand. 

"This  is  my  friend,"  he  said,  dragging  him  for 
ward  ;  "  and  if  you  like  me,  you  shall  please  to  like 
him,  too,  and  tell  the  King  to  knight  him  at  once." 

"  You  have  a  strong  recommendation  to  grace, 
sir,"  said  the  Queen. 

She  looked  down  at  the  imperious  boy's  square 
face  and  laughed  ;  but  looking  up  and  meeting  Gil 
bert's  eyes  again,  the  ring  of  her  laugh  changed 
oddly  and  died  away  in  a  short  silence.  It  was 
long  since  she  had  looked  upon  so  goodly  a  man  ; 
she  was  weary  of  her  monkish  husband,  and  she  was 
the  grand-daughter  of  William  of  Aquitaine,  giant, 
troubadour,  and  lover.'  It  was  no  wonder  that  there 
was  light  in  her  eyes,  and  life  in  every  fibre  of  her 
beautiful  body. 

"  I  think  I  shall  like  your  friend,"  she  said,  speak 
ing  to  Henry,  but  still  looking  at  the  man. 

And  so  Gilbert  first  met  the  Queen ;  and  as  she 
held  out  her  hand  to  him  and  he  took  it,  kneeling 
on  one  knee,  she  unconsciously  drew  young  Henry 
close  to  her,  and  her  arm  was  round  his  neck,  and 


74  VIA   CKUCIS 

her  hand  pressed  his  shoulder  in  a  very  gentle  way, 
so  that  he  looked  up  into  her  face.  But  if  any  one 
had  told  her  then  that  she  should  love  the  man  in  vain, 
that  she  should  be  divided  from  the  fair-haired  King 
beside  her  and  become  the  wife  of  the  broad-faced, 
rough-fisted  little  boy  whose  curly  head  barely 
reached  her  shoulder,  the  prophet  might  have  fared 
ill,  as  readers  of  the  future  often  do. 

But  meanwhile  the  King  stood  talking  quietly  with 
Duke  Geoffrey,  who  presently  crossed  to  salute  the 
Queen,  not  dreaming  what  strange  spirits  had  taken 
possession  of  the  hearts  of  three  persons  in  one 
moment.  For  the  third  was  Henry  himself.  When 
the  Queen  gave  her  right  hand  to  his  father  her 
other  was  still  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  and  when  she 
would  have  withdrawn  it  he  caught  it  with  both 
his  own  and  held  it  there ;  and  suddenly  the  blood 
sprang  up  in  his  cheeks  even  to  the  roots  of  his  hair, 
and  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  his  life  Henry 
Plantagenet  was  almost  ridiculous,  and  wished  that 
he  might  hide  his  head.  Yet  he  would  not  loose  his 
hold  on  the  Queen's  hand. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHILE  Duke  Geoffrey  tarried  in  Paris,  receiving 
much  honour  at  the  King's  court,  but  obtaining  very 
little  encouragement  in  his  hope  of  help  against 
Stephen,  the  time  was  heavy  on  the  hands  of  some  of 
his  followers ;  but  others  of  them,  seeing  that  they  had 
little  service  and  much  leisure,  made  up  their  minds 
to  do  not  only  what  was  good  in  their  own  eyes,  but 
sometimes  also  that  which  was  evil,  as  a  certain  chron 
icler  once  said  of  the  English  knights.  For  the  wine 
of  Gascony  was  good,  but  some  said  that  the  vintage 
of  Burgundy  was  better,  and  a  matter  of  such  weight 
was  evidently  not  to  be  left  undecided ;  yet  the  more 
often  it  came  to  judgment,  the  more  evidence  and 
testimony  were  required  in  the  case,  so  that  the 
court  sat  night  and  day  without  agreeing  upon  a 
verdict. 

But  Gilbert  had  never  learned  to  sit  for  hours 
over  a  cup,  slowly  addling  his  wits  and  marking  the 
hour  when  the  room  should  begin  to  swing  upon  the 
pivot  of  his  head;  and  Henry  kept  him  constantly 
by  his  side,  saying  that  he  was  the  only  sober  man 
in  his  father's  court,  knight  or  squire;  nor  would 
the  boy  let  him  go,  excepting  when  he  himself  could 
pass  his  time  with  the  Queen,  and  then  he  was  more 
than  anxious  that  Gilbert  should  disappear.  At 
first  Eleanor  was  amused  by  the  lad's  childish  pas- 

75 


76  VIA   CRUCIS 

sion,  but  as  she  herself  greatly  preferred  Gilbert's 
society  to  that  of  Henry,  she  soon  grew  weary  of 
the  rather  tame  sport  which  consisted  in  making 
a  boy  of  twelve  years  fall  desperately  in  love  with 
her. 

Moreover,  Henry  was  precocious  and  keen-sighted 
beyond  his  years,  and  was  not  long  in  discovering 
his  idol's  predilection  for  his  friend.  His  chief  con 
solation  was  that  Gilbert  himself  seemed  indifferent, 
and  came  and  went  at  the  Queen's  bidding  as  though 
he  were  obeying  an  order  rather  than  an  impulse. 

One  lazy  autumn  afternoon,  when  the  air  was  as 
hot  as  summer,  and  the  flies  were  swarming  about  the 
open  doors  of  the  great  stables,  and  before  the  deep 
archway  that  led  into  the  main  kitchen,  and  about 
the  open  windows  of  the  knights'  and  squires'  quar 
ters, —  when  the  air  was  still  and  lazy,  and  not  a 
sound  was  heard  in  the  vast  enclosure  of  the  castle- 
yard, —  Henry  and  Gilbert  came  out  to  play  at  tennis 
in  a  shady  corner  behind  the  church,  where  there 
was  a  penthouse  that  would  serve. 

In  half  a  dozen  strokes  Henry  had  scored  high  to 
Gilbert's  nothing,  and  the  boy  dropped  the  ball  at  his 
feet  to  tighten  the  network  he  had  made  on  his  hand 
by  winding  a  bowstring  in  and  out  between  his  fin 
gers  and  across  the  palm,  as  men  did  before  rackets 
were  thought  of.  Suddenly  he  turned  half  round 
and  faced  Gilbert,  planting  himself  with  his  sturdy 
legs  apart  and  crossing  his  arms,  which  were  bare  to 
the  elbow ;  for  he  had  taken  off  his  cloth  tunic,  and 
his  embroidered  shirt,  girdled  at  the  waist  by  a 
leathern  belt,  hung  over  his  scarlet  hose,  and  was 


VIA  CEUCIS  77 

wide  at  the  neok  and  turned  back  above  his  elbows. 
He  was  hapless,  ruddy,  and  hot. 

"Will  you  answer  a  fair  question  fairly,  Master 
Gilbert?"  he  asked,  looking  his  friend  in  the  eyes. 

Gilbert  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  treating  him 
like  a  man,  as  most  people  did,  excepting  the  Queen, 
and  gravely  nodded  an  answer. 

"Do  you  not  think  that  the  Queen  of  France  is 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Gilbert,  without  a  smile,  and 
without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

The  boy's  eyes,  that  were  so  near  together,  gleamed 
and  fixed  themselves  in  rising  anger,  while  a  dark 
red  flush  mounted  from  his  bare  throat  to  his  cheeks, 
and  from  his  cheeks  to  his  forehead. 

"Then  you  love  her?"  he  asked  fiercely,  and  the 
words  were  thick  on  his  lips. 

Gilbert  was  not  easily  surprised,  but  the  conclusion 
was  so  sudden  and  unexpected  that  he  stared  for  a 
moment  in  blank  amazement  before  he  smiled. 

"I?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  love  the  Queen?  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  coveting  the  King's  crown !  " 

Henry  looked  into  Gilbert's  face  a  moment  longer, 
and  the  blood  slowly  subsided  from  his  own. 

"I  can  see  that  you  are  in  earnest,"  he  said,  pick 
ing  up  the  ball  at  his  feet,  "though  I  cannot  see 
why  a  man  should  not  covet  a  king's  crown  as  well 
as  a  king's  wife."  He  struck 'the  ball. 

"You  are  young,"  said  Gilbert,  "to  ride  atilt 
through  all  the  Ten  Commandments  at  once." 

"  Young!  "  exclaimed  the  boy,  keeping  the  ball  up. 
"  So  was  David  when  he  killed  the  giant !  So  was 


78  VIA   CRUCIS 

Hercules  when  he  strangled  the  serpents,  as  you 
told  me  the  other  day.  Young!  "  he  cried  a  second 
time,  with  forcibly  concentrated  contempt.  "  You 
should  know,  Master  Gilbert,  that  a  Plantagenet  of 
thirteen  years  is  the  match  of  any  other  man  of 
twenty.  As  I  can  beat  you  at  tennis,  though  you 
are  six  years  older  than  I,  so  I  can  beat  you  in  other 
matters,  and  with  the  Queen  herself,  even  though 
she  is  half  in  love  with  you  already,  as  all  the 
court  is  saying  ;  and  she  shall  belong  to  me  some 
day,  though  I  have  to  slay  that  dish-faced  prayer- 
master  of  a  king  to  get  her." 

Gilbert  was  no  more  morally  timid  than  he  was 
physically  a  coward,  but  he  looked  round  with  some 
anxiety  as  the  boy  uttered  his  outrageous  boast. 

The  place  they  had  chosen  for  their  game  was  the 
deep  and  shady  corner  where  the  church  made  a  right 
angle  with  the  royal  palace.  The  grass  was  cropped 
during  several  hours  every  morning  by  a  dozen  sheep 
and  lambs  kept  in  a  stable  at  the  other  end  of  the 
castle-yard  during  the  rest  of  the  day.  The  springing 
turf  was  kept  fresh  even  in  summer's  drought  by  the 
deep  shadows.  The  church  wall,  built  of  well- 
hewn  blocks  of  stone,  was  flat  and  smooth,  and  was 
strengthened  at  regular  intervals  by  buttresses  spring 
ing  straight  up  from  the  sloping  penthouse  of 
masonry,  some  two  yards  high.  The  interval  be 
tween  the  last  buttress  and  the  wall  of  the  palace 
made  an  admirable  court,  and,  indeed,  the  tennis- 
courts  of  later  days  all  seem  to  have  been  modelled 
upon  just  such  corners  of  old  church  architecture. 
The  wall  of  the  palace  was  also  smooth  and  almost 


VIA   CBUCIS  79 

without  windows  on  that  side.  There  was  one  on 
the  lower  floor,  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the 
corner,  but  the  other  was  at  least  four  or  five  yards 
from  the  ground,  just  above  the  point  where  Gilbert 
and  Henry  were  playing,  and  was  made  in  Norman 
fashion  of  two  round  arches  springing  from  the 
rough-hewn  capital  of  a  small  stone  column  between 
them.  Gilbert  had  often  noticed  this  window, 
though  it  was  above  an  ordinary  side  glance,  as  he 
played  the  ball  at  the  other  wall;  and  even  as  he 
turned  now,  he  looked  instinctively  behind  him  and 
towards  the  distant  lower  window. 

A  sweet  low  laugh  rang  out  into  the  summer  air 
just  above  his  head.  He  looked  up  to  meet  the 
sound,  and  young  Henry  missed  the  ball  and  turned 
his  eyes  in  the  same  direction.  His  bluff,  boyish 
face  blushed  scarlet,  but  Gilbert  turned  slowly  pale, 
stepped  back,  and  took  his  round  pointed  cap  from 
his  fair  hair  in  acknowledgment  of  the  Queen's 
presence. 

"You  were  listening,  Madam/'  cried  the  boy,  red 
in  his  anger.  "  But  I  am  glad  you  did,  since  you 
have  heard  the  truth." 

The  Queen  laughed  again,  and  drew  back  her  head 
as  if  to  see  whether  there  were  any  one  in  the  room 
behind  her,  her  white  hand  lying  over  the  stone  sill, 
meanwhile,  as  if  to  show  that  she  was  not  going 
away.  Gilbert  even  thought  that  the  slender  fingers 
tapped  the  stone  ledge  in  a  reassuring  way.  Then 
she  looked  out  again.  A  few  late  flowers  and  sweet 
herbs  grew  in  an  earthenware  trough  in  one  division 
of  the  window.  There  was  sweet  basil  and  rosemary, 


80  VIA   CRUCIS 

and  a  bit  of  ivy  that  tried  to  find  a  hold  upon  the 
slender  column,  and,  partly  missing  it,  hung  down 
over  the  window-ledge.  A  single  monthly  rose  made 
a  point  of  colour  among  the  sweet  green  things. 

The  Queen  was  still  smiling  as  she  rested  her 
elbows  upon  the  sill  and  her  chin  on  her  folded 
hands.  She  was  near  enough  to  the  tennis-players 
to  be  heard  by  them  if  she  spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

"Are  you  angry  because  Master  Gilbert  is  fright 
ened  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  Henry.  "  Or  are  you 
frightened  because  his  lordship,  the  Count  of  Anjou, 
is  angry?  "  she  inquired,  turning  her  eyes  to  Gilbert. 

He  smiled  at  her  way  of  opening  the  conversation, 
but  Henry  thought  that  she  was  laughing  at  him  and 
grew  redder  than  ever.  Not  deigning  to  answer,  he 
picked  up  the  ball  and  served  it  over  the  penthouse 
to  himself,  striking  it  back  cleverly  enough.  The 
Queen  laughed  again  as  he  kept  his  face  resolutely 
turned  from  her. 

"Will  you  teach  me  to  play,  if  I  come  down  to 
you  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  the  back  of  his  head. 

"It  is  no  game  for  women,"  answered  the  boy, 
rudely,  and  still  keeping  the  ball  up. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  lesson,  Master  Gilbert?" 

The  laughing  eyes  were  suddenly  grave  as  they 
turned  to  the  young  Englishman,  the  smiling  lips 
grew  tender,  and  the  voice  was  gentle.  Without 
turning  round,  Henry  felt  the  change  and  knew  that 
she  was  looking  at  his  friend;  he  served  the  ball 
with  a  vicious  stroke  that  brought  it  back  too  high 
for  him.  Without  turning  his  head  to  see  where  it 
had  rolled,  the  angry  boy  walked  off,  picked  up  his 


VIA   CRTJCIS  81 

tunic,  which  lay  on  the  turf  at  a  little  distance, 
threw  it  over  his  arm,  jammed  his  pointed  cap  upon 
his  head  with  his  other  hand,  and  departed  in  offended 
dignity. 

The  Queen  smiled  as  she  looked  after  him,  but 
did  not  laugh  again. 

"  Will  you  teach  me  to  play  tennis  ? "  she  asked 
of  Gilbert,  who  was  hesitating  as  to  what  he  should 
do.  "You  have  not  answered  me  yet." 

"I  shall  at  all  times  do  your  Grace's  bidding," 
answered  Gilbert,  inclining  his  head  a  little  and 
making  a  gesture  with  the  hand  that  held  his  cap  as 
if  to  put  himself  at  her  disposal. 

"At  all  times?"  she  asked  quietly. 

Gilbert  looked  up  quickly,  fearing  lest  he  might 
be  tricked  into  a  promise  he  did  not  understand,  and 
he  did  not  answer  at  once.  But  she  would  not  repeat 
the  question. 

"  Wait,"  she  said,  before  he  spoke.  "  I  am  coming 
down." 

With  an  almost  imperceptible  gesture,  like  a 
greeting,  she  disappeared.  Gilbert  began  to  walk 
up  and  down,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  and  he  did  not  see  the  tennis-ball  which 
Henry  had  lost  until  he  almost  stumbled  over  it. 
The  boy's  words  had  roused  an  entirely  new  train  of 
ideas  in  his  mind.  Perhaps  no  man  could  be  so  free 
from  vanity  as  not  to  be  pleased,  even  against  his 
will,  with  the  thought  that  the  most  beautiful  liv 
ing  woman,  and  she  a  queen,  was  in  love  with  him. 
But  whatever  satisfaction  of  that  sort  Gilbert  may 
have  felt  was  traversed  in  an  opposite  direction  by 


82  VIA   CRUCIS 

the  cool  sense  of  his  own  indifference.  And  be 
sides,  that  was  a  simple  age  in  which  sins  were 
called  by  their  own  names  and  were  regarded  with  a 
sort  of  semi-religious,  respectful  abhorrence  by  most 
honest  gentlemen;  and  what  was  only  the  general 
expression  of  a  narrow  but  high  morality  had  been 
branded  upon  Gilbert's  soul  during  the  past  months 
in  letters  that  were  wounds  by  the  ever-present 
memory  of  his  own  mother's  shame. 

The  confusion  of  his  reflections  was  simplified  by 
the  appearance  of  Queen  Eleanor.  At  the  window 
of  the  lower  story,  which  opened  to  the  ground,  she 
stepped  out,  looked  up  and  down  the  deserted  yard, 
and  then  came  towards  him.  Gilbert  had  been  long 
enough  in  Paris  to  understand  that  Queen  Eleanor 
had  not  the  slightest  regard  for  the  set  rules,  formal 
prejudices,  and  staid  traditions  of  her  husband's 
court;  and  when  King  Louis  gravely  protested 
against  her  dressing  herself  in  man's  mail,  bestrid 
ing  his  own  favourite  charger,  and  tilting  at  the 
Saracen  quintain  in  the  yard,  she  hinted  with  more 
or  less  good  or  ill  nature,  according  to  her  mood, 
that  her  possessions  were  considerably  more  exten 
sive  than  the  kingdom  of  France,  and  that  what  she 
had  been  taught  to  do  by  William  of  Aquitaine  was 
necessarily  right,  and  beyond  the  criticism  of  Louis 
Capet,  who  was  descended  from  a  Paris  butcher. 
Nevertheless,  the  Englishman  had  some  reason 
able  doubts  and  misgivings  at  finding  himself, 
a  humble  squire,  alone  in  that  quiet  corner  with 
the  most  beautiful  and  most  powerful  of  reigning 
queens.  But  she,  whose  quick  intuition  was  a  gift 


"PERHAPS  THAT  is  ONB  REASON  WHY  i  LIKE  you' 


VIA   CKTJCIS  83 

almost  beyond  nature,  knew  what  he  felt  before  she 
had  reached  his  side.  She  spoke  quite  naturally  and 
as  if  such  a  meeting  were  an  everyday  occurrence. 

"  You  did  not  know  that  the  window  was  mine  ?  " 
she  said  quietly.  "  I  saw  how  surprised  you  were 
when  I  looked  cut.  It  is  a  window  of  a  little  hall 
behind  my  room.  There  is  a  staircase  leading  down. 
I  often  come  that  way,  but  I  hardly  ever  look  out. 
To-day  as  I  was  passing  I  heard  that  silly  child's 
angry  voice,  and  when  I  saw  his  face  and  heard  what 
he  said,  I  could  not  help  laughing." 

"The  young  Count  is  in  earnest,"  said  Gilbert, 
quietly,  for  it  would  have  seemed  disloyal  to  him  to 
join  in  the  Queen's  laughter. 

"In  earnest!     Children  are  always  in  earnest! " 

"They  deserve  the  more  respect,"  retorted  the 
Englishman. 

"I  never  heard  of  respecting  children,"  laughed 
the  Queen. 

"You  never  read  Juvenal,"  answered  Gilbert. 

"You  often  say  things  which  I  never  heard 
before,"  answered  the  Queen.  "Perhaps  that  is  one 
reason  why  I  like  you." 

She  stopped  and  leaned  against  the  penthouse,  for 
they  had  reached  the  corner  of  the  court,  and  she 
thoughtfully  bit  a  sprig  of  rosemary  which  she  had 
picked  from  her  window  in  passing.  Gilbert  could 
not  help  watching  the  small  white  teeth  that  severed 
the  little  curling  grey  leaves  like  ivory  knives,  but 
the  Queen's  eyes  were  turned  from  him  and  were 
very  thoughtful. 

Gilbert  deemed  it  necessary  to  say  something. 


84  VIA  CRUCIS 

"  Your  Grace  is  very  kind. "  He  bowed  respectfully 

"What  makes  you  so  sad?"  she  asked  suddenly, 
after  a  short  pause,  and  turning  her  eyes  full  upon 
him.  "Is  Paris  so  dull?  Is  our  court  so  grave? 
Is  my  Gascony  wine  sour,  that  you  will  not  be  merry 
like  the  rest,  or  "  —  she  laughed  a  little  —  "  or  are 
you  not  treated  with  the  respect  and  consideration 
due  to  your  rank?" 

Gilbert  drew  himself  up  a  little  as  if  not  pleased 
by  the  jest. 

"You  know  well  that  I  have  no  rank,  Madam," 
he  said  ;  "  and  though  it  should  please  you  to  com 
mand  of  me  some  worthy  deed,  and  I  should,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  deserve  knighthood,  yet  I  would  not 
have  it  save  of  my  lawful  sovereign." 

"Such  as  teaching  me  to  play  tennis?"  she  asked, 
seeming  not  to  hear  the  end  of  his  speech.  "You 
should  as  well  be  knighted  for  that  as  for  any  other 
thing  hard  to  do." 

"  Your  Grace  is  never  in  earnest. " 

"Sometimes  I  am."  Her  eyelids  drooped  a  little 
as  she  looked  at  him.  "Not  often  enough,  you 
think?  And  you  —  too  often.  Always,  indeed." 

"If  I  were  Queen  of  France,  I  could  be  light- 
hearted,  too,"  said  Gilbert.  "But  if  your  Grace 
were  Gilbert  Warde,  you  should  be  perhaps  a  sadder 
man  than  I." 

And  he  also  laughed  a  little,  but  bitterly.  Eleanor 
raised  her  smooth  brows  and  spoke  with  a  touch  of 
irony. 

"Are  you  so  young,  and  have  you  already  such 
desperate  sorrows  ?  " 


VIA   CEUCIS  85 

But  as  she  looked,  his  face  changed,  with  that  look 
of  real  and  cruel  suffering  which  none  can  counter 
feit.  He  leaned  back  against  the  penthouse,  looking 
straight  before  him.  Then  she,  seeing  that  she  had 
touched  the  nerve  in  an  unhealed  wound,  glanced 
sidelong  at  him,  bit  upon  her  sprig  of  rosemary  again, 
turned,  and  with  half-bent  head  walked  slowly  along 
to  the  next  buttress;  she  turned  again  there,  and 
coming  back  stood  close  before  him,  laying  one  hand 
upon  his  folded  arm  and  looking  up  to  his  eyes,  that 
gazed  persistently  over  her  head. 

"I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world,"  she  said 
very  gravely.  "  I  mean  to  be  your  friend,  your  best 
friend  —  do  you  understand?" 

Gilbert  looked  down  and  saw  her  upturned  face. 
It  should  have  moved  him  even  then,  he  thought,  and 
perhaps  he  did  not  himself  know  that  between  her 
and  him  there  was  the  freezing  shadow  of  a  faint 
likeness  to  his  mother. 

"You  are  kind,  Madam,"  he  said,  somewhat  for 
mally.  "  A  poor  squire  without  home  or  fortune  can 
hardly  be  the  friend  of  the  Queen  of  France." 

She  drew  back  from  him  half  a  step,  but  her  out 
stretched  hand  still  rested  on  his  arm. 

"  What  have  lands  and  fortune  to  do  with  friend 
ship —  or  with  love?"  she  asked.  "Friendship's 
home  is  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  women;  friend 
ship's  fortune  is  friendship's  faith." 

"Ay,  Madam,  so  it  should  be,"  answered  Gilbert, 
his  voice  warming  in  a  fuller  tone. 

"Then  be  my  friend,"  she  said,  and  her  hand 
turned  itself  palm  upward,  asking  for  his. 


86  VIA   CRTTCIS 

He  took  it  and  raised  it  to  his  lips  in  the  act  of 
bending  one  knee.  But  she  hindered  him;  her  fin 
gers  closed  on  his  with  a  strength  greater  than  he  had 
supposed  that  any  woman  could  possess,  and  she 
held  him  and  made  him  stand  upright  again,  so  that 
he  would  have  had  to  use  force  to  kneel  before  her. 

"Leave  that  for  the  court,"  she  said;  "when  we 
are  alone  let  us  enjoy  our  freedom  and  be  simply 
human  beings,  man  and  woman,  friend  and  friend." 

Gilbert  still  held  her  hand,  and  saw  nothing  but 
truth  in  the  mask  of  open-hearted  friendship  in  which 
she  disguised  her  growing  love.  He  was  young 
and  thought  himself  almost  friendless;  a  generous 
warmth  was  suddenly  at  his  heart,  with  something 
compounded  of  real  present  gratitude  and  of  the 
most  chivalrous  and  unselfish  devotion  for  the  future. 

She  felt  that  she  had  gained  a  point,  and  she  forth 
with  claimed  the  privilege  of  friendship. 

"And  being  friends,"  she  said,  still  holding  his 
hand  as  he  stood  beside  her,  "will  you  not  trust  me 
and  tell  me  what  it  is  that  seems  to  break  your 
heart?  It  may  be  that  I  can  help  you." 

Gilbert  hesitated,  and  she  saw  the  uncertainty  in 
his  face,  and  pressed  his  hand  softly  as  if  persuading 
him  to  speak. 

"  Tell  me !  "  she  said.     "  Tell  me  about  yourself  I  " 

Gilbert  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  looked  away,  and 
then  turned  to  her  again.  Her  voice  had  a  persuasion 
of  its  own  that  appealed  to  him  as  her  beauty  could  not. 
Almost  before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing  he  was 
walking  slowly  by  her  left  side,  in  the  shade  of  the 
church,  telling  her  his  story;  and  she  listened, 


VIA  CRUCIS  87 

silently  interested,  always  turning  her  face  a  little 
toward  his,  and  sometimes  meeting  his  eyes  with 
eyes  of  sympathy.  He  could  not  have  told  his  tale 
to  a  man ;  he  would  not  have  told  it  to  a  woman  he 
loved;  but  Eleanor  represented  to  him  a  new  and 
untried  relation,  and  the  sweet,  impersonal  light 
of  friendship  waked  the  dark  places  of  his  heart  to 
undreamt  confidence. 

He  told  her  what  had  befallen  him,  from  first  to 
last,  but  the  sound  of  his  own  words  was  strange  to 
him ;  for  he  found  himself  telling  her  what  he  had 
seen  two  and  three  years  ago,  in  the  light  of  what  he 
had  known  but  a  few  months,  yet  almost  as  if  he  had 
known  it  from  the  first.  More  than  once  he  hesi 
tated  in  his  speech,  being  suddenly  struck  by  the 
horror  of  what  he  was  telling,  and  almost  doubting 
the  witness  of  his  own  soul  to  the  truth.  One  thing 
only  he  did  not  tell  —  he  never  spoke  of  Beatrix, 
nor  hinted  that  there  had  been  any  love  in  his  life. 

They  turned,  and  turned  again  many  times,  and 
he  was  hardly  aware  that  at  the  end  the  Queen  had 
linked  one  hand  in  his  right  arm  and  gently  pressed  it 
from  time  to  time  in  sign  of  sympathy.  And  when 
he  had  finished,  with  a  quaver  in  his  deep  voice  as  he 
told  how  he  had  come  out  into  the  world  to  seek  his 
fortune,  she  stopped  him,  and  they  both  stood  still. 

"  Poor  boy !  "  she  exclaimed  softly.  "  Poor  Gil 
bert  !  "  —  and  her  tone  lingered  on  the  name,  —  "  the 
world  owes  you  a  desperate  debt  —  but  the  world 
shall  pay  it  I" 

She  smiled  as  she  spoke  the  last  words,  pressing 
his  arm  more  suddenly  and  quickly  than  before ;  and 


88  VIA   CRUCIS 

he  smiled,  too,  but  incredulously.  Then  she  looked 
down  at  her  own  hand  upon  his  sleeve. 

"But  that  is  not  all,  "she  continued  thoughtfully ; 
"  was  there  no  woman  —  no  love  —  no  one  that  was 
dearer  than  all  you  lost?" 

A  faint  and  almost  boyish  blush  rose  in  Gilbert's 
cheek,  and  disappeared  again  instantly. 

"  They  took  her  from  me,  too, "  he  said  in  a  low, 
hard  voice.  "  She  was  Arnold  de  Curboil's  daughter 

—  when  he  married  my  mother  he  made  his  child  my 
sister.     You  know  the  Church's  law !  " 

Eleanor  was  on  the  point  of  saying  something  im 
pulsively,  but  her  eyelids  suddenly  drooped  and  she 
checked  herself.  If  Gilbert  Warde  did  not  know 
that  the  Church  granted  dispensations  in  such  cases, 
she  saw  no  good  reason  for  telling  him. 

"Besides,"  he  added,  "I  could  not  have  her  now, 
unless  I  could  take  her  from  her  father  by  force." 

"No."  said  the  Queen,  thoughtfully.  "Is  she 
fair?" 

"Very  dark,"  said  Gilbert. 

"I  meant,  is  she  beautiful?" 

"To  me,  yes:  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world. 
But  how  should  I  know  ?  I  have  never  heard  others 
speak  of  her;  she  is  not  beautiful  as  your  Grace  is, 

—  not  radiantly,  supremely,  magnificently  perfect, 

—  yet  to  my  eyes  she  is  very  lovely." 

"I  should  like  to  see  her,"  said  the  Queen. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  they  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  again  side  by  side,  but  Eleanor's  hand 
no  longer  rested  on  Gilbert's  arm.  She  could  see 
that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  face  that  was  far 


VIA   CRUCIS  89 

away,  and  that  his  hand  longed  for  a  touch  not  hers ; 
and  a  painful  little  thrill  of  disappointment  ran 
through  her,  for  she  was  not  used  to  any  sort  of 
opposition,  in  great  things  or  small.  The  handsome 
Englishman  attracted  her  strangely,  and  not  by  his 
outward  personality  only.  From  the  first  a  sort  of 
mystery  had  hung  over  him,  and  she  had  felt,  when 
she  was  with  him,  the  inexplicable  fascination  of  a 
curiosity  which  she  should  be  sure  to  satisfy  sooner 
or  later.  And  now,  having  learned  something  of 
his  life,  and  liking  him  the  more  for  what  she  knew, 
she  was  suddenly  filled  with  an  irresistible  longing 
to  see  the  girl  who  had  made  the  first  mark  on  Gil 
bert's  life.  She  tried  to  conjure  up  the  young  face, 
and  the  dark  hue  he  had  spoken  of  brought  the  vision 
of  a  fateful  shadow.  Her  mind  dwelt  upon  the  girl, 
and  she  started  visibly  when  Gilbert  spoke  to  her. 

"  And  has  your  Grace  no  deed  for  me  to  do  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  Is  there  nothing  whereby  I  may  prove  my 
thanks  ? " 

"Nothing,  save  that  you  be  indeed  my  friend  — 
a  friend  I  can  trust,  a  friend  to  whom  I  may  speak 
safely  as  to  my  own  soul,  a  friend  whom  I  may  tell 
how  heartily  I  hate  this  life  I  lead! " 

She  uttered  the  last  words  with  a  sudden  rising 
accent  of  unruly  discontent,  as  genuine  as  every 
other  outward  showing  of  her  vital  nature. 

"How  can  your  life  be  hateful?"  asked  Gilbert, 
in  profound  astonishment,  for  he  did  not  know  her 
half  as  well  as  she  already  knew  him. 

"How  can  it  be  anything  else?"  she  asked, 
"  How  should  life  not  be  hateful,  when  every  natural 


90  VIA   CRUCIS 

thing  that  makes  life  worth  living  is  choked  as 
soon  as  it  is  awake?  Oh,  I  often  wish  I  were  a 
man!" 

"Men  do  not  wish  you  were,"  answered  Gilbert, 
with  a  smile. 

Suddenly,  while  they  were  speaking,  a  sound  of 
voices  filled  the  air  with  loud  chanting  of  Latin 
words.  Instinctively  the  Queen  laid  her  hand  on 
Gilbert's  sleeve  and  drew  him  into  the  shadow  of 
a  buttress,  and  he  yielded,  scarcely  knowing  what 
he  did.  The  chanting  swelled  on  the  air,  and  a 
moment  later  the  procession  began  to  appear  beyond 
the  corner  of  the  church.  Two  and  two,  led  by  one 
who  bore  a  cross,  the  song-boys  in  scarlet  and  white 
came  first,  then  Benedictine  monks  in  black,  then 
priests  of  the  cathedral  in  violet  cloth  with  fine  white 
linen  surplices  and  bearing  wax  candles.  And  they 
all  chanted  as  they  walked,  loudly,  fervently,  as  if 
a  life  and  a  soul  depended  on  every  note.  Then,  as 
the  Queen  and  Gilbert  looked  on  from  the  shade 
where  they  stood,  they  saw  the  canopy  of  cloth  of 
gold  borne  on  its  six  gilded  staves  by  slim  young 
men  in  white,  and  beneath  it  walked  the  vener 
able  bishop,  half  hidden  under  the  vast  embroid 
ered  cope  from  which  the  golden  monstrance 
emerged,  grasped  by  his  closely  wrapped  hands; 
and  his  colourless  eyes  were  fixed  devoutly  upon 
the  Sacred  Host,  while  his  lips  moved  in  silent 
prayer. 

Just  as  the  canopy  was  in  sight  the  procession 
halted  for  some  time.  In  the  shadow  of  the  buttress 
Eleanor  knelt  upon  the  turf,  looking  towards  the 


VIA   CBTJCIS  91 

Sacred  Host,  and  Gilbert  dropped  upon  one  knee  at 
her  side,  very  reverently  bending  his  head. 

Eleanor  looked  straight  before  her  with  more 
curiosity  than  religious  fervour,  but  in  her  ear  she 
heard  Gilbert's  deep  voice  softly  chanting  with  the 
monks  the  psalms  he  had  so  often  sung  at  Sheering 
Abbey.  The  Queen  turned  her  head  at  the  sound, 
in  surprise,  and  watched  the  young  man's  grave 
face  for  a  moment  without  attracting  his  attention. 
Apparently  she  was  not  pleased,  for  her  brows  were 
very  slightly  drawn  together,  the  corners  of  her  eyes 
drooped,  and  the  deep  bright  blue  was  darkened.  At 
that  moment  the  canopy  swayed  a  little,  the  ancient 
bishop  moved  his  shoulders  under  the  heavy  cope  in 
the  effort  of  starting  again,  and  the  procession  began 
to  move  onward. 

Next  after  the  bishop,  from  behind  the  end 
of  the  church,  the  King  came  into  sight,  walking, 
monk-like,  with  folded  hands,  moving  lips  and 
downcast  eyes,  the  long  embroidered  bliaut  reach 
ing  almost  to  his  feet,  while  the  scarlet  mantle,  lined 
with  blue  and  bordered  with  ermine,  fell  straight 
from  his  shoulders  and  touched  the  turf  as  he  walked. 
He  was  bareheaded,  and  as  Eleanor  noticed  what 
was  evidently  intended  for  another  act  of  humility, 
the  serene  curve  of  her  closed  lips  was  sharpened  in 
scorn.  And  suddenly,  as  she  gazed  at  her  husband's 
cold,  white  features  in  contempt,  she  heard  Gilbert's 
voice  at  her  elbow  again,  chanting  the  Latin  words 
musically  and  distinctly,  and  she  turned  almost  with 
a  movement  of  anger  to  see  the  bold  young  face  sad 
dened  and  softened  by  the  essence  of  a  profound  belief. 


92  VIA   CRUCIS 

"Was  I  born  to  love  monks!"  she  sighed  hall 
audibly;  but  as  she  looked  back  at  the  procession 
she  started  and  uttered  a  low  exclamation. 

Beside  her  husband,  but  a  little  after  him  as  the 
pageant  turned,  a  straight,  thin  figure  came  into  sight, 
clad  in  a  monk's  frock  scarcely  less  dazzling  white 
than  the  marvellous  upturned  face.  At  Eleanor's 
exclamation  Gilbert  also  had  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
ground,  and  they  fixed  themselves  on  the  wonderful 
features  of  the  greatest  man  of  the  age,  while  his 
voice  forgot  to  chant  and  his  lips  remained  parted 
in  wonder.  Upon  the  bright  green  grass  against 
the  background  of  hewn  stone  walls,  in  the  glorious 
autumn  sunshine,  Bernard  of  Clairvaux  moved  like 
the  supernal  vision  of  a  heavenly  dream.  His  head 
thrown  back,  the  delicate  silver-fair  beard  scarcely 
shadowing  the  spiritual  outlines  of  an  almost  divine 
face,  his  soft  blue  eyes  looked  upward,  filled  with  a 
light  not  earthly.  The  transparent  brow  and  the 
almost  emaciated  cheeks  were  luminously  pale,  and 
seemed  to  shed  a  radiance  of  their  own. 

But  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  say  what  it 
was  in  the  man's  form  or  face  that  made  him  so 
utterly  different  and  distinct  from  other  men.  It 
was  not  alone  the  Christlike  brow,  nor  the  noble 
features  inherited  from  a  line  of  heroes ;  it  was  not 
the  ascetic  air,  the  look  of  bodily  suffering,  nor 
the  fine-drawn  lines  of  pain  which,  as  it  were, 
etched  a  shadowy  background  of  sorrow  upon  which 
the  spiritual  supremacy  blazed  like  a  rising  star: 
it  was  something  beyond  all  these,  above  name 
and  out  of  definition,  the  halo  of  saintship,  the 


VIA   CRUCIS  95 

glory  of  genius,  the  crown  of  heroism.  Of  such  a 
man,  one's  eyes  might  be  filled,  and  one  might  say, 
'Let  him  not  speak,  lest  some  harsh  tone  or  imper 
fect  speech  should  pierce  the  vision  with  sharp 
discord,  as  a  rude  and  sudden  sound  ends  a  soft 
dream.'  Yet  he  was  a  man  who,  when  he  raised 
his  hand  to  lead,  led  millions  like  children;  who, 
when  he  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  spoke  with  the 
tongue  of  men  and  of  angels  such  words  as  none 
had  spoken  before  him  —  words  which  were  the  truth 
made  light ;"  one  who,  when  he  took  pen  in  hand  to 
write  to  the  world's  masters,  wrote  without  fear  or 
fault,  as  being  the  scribe  of  God,  but  who  could 
pen  messages  of  tenderest  love  and  gentlest  counsel 
to  the  broken-hearted  and  the  heavy-laden. 

Gilbert's  eyes  followed  the  still,  white  glory  of 
the  monk's  face,  till  the  procession  turned  in  a  wide 
sweep  behind  the  wing  of  the  palace,  and  even  then 
the  tension  of  his  look  did  not  relax.  He  was  still 
kneeling  with  fixed  gaze  when  the  Queen  was  stand 
ing  beside  him.  The  scorn  was  gone  from  her  lips 
and  had  given  place  to  a  sort  of  tender  pity.  She 
touched  the  young  man's  shoulder  twice  before  he 
started,  looked  up,  and  then  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?  "  he  asked  earnestly. 

"Bernard,  Abbot  of  Clairvaux,"  answered  the 
Queen,  looking  far  away.  "  I  almost  worshipped  him 
once,  when  I  was  a  child, —  it  is  the  will  of  Heaven 
that  I  should  lose  my  heart  to  monks !  " 

She  laughed,  as  she  had  laughed  from  the  window. 

"  Monks  ?  "  Gilbert  repeated  the  word  with  curi 
osity. 


94  VIA  CRUCIS 

"Are  you  one  of  those  persons  for  whom  it  is 
necessary  to  explain  everything?"  asked  Eleanor, 
still  smiling  and  looking  at  him  intently.  "  I  think 
you  must  be  half  a  monk  yourself,  for  I  heard  you 
singing  the  psalms  as  sweetly  as  any  convent 
scholar." 

"Even  if  I  were  not  half  a  monk,  but  one  alto 
gether,  I  should  not  wholly  understand  your  Grace's 
speech;"  Gilbert  smiled,  too,  for  he  was  immeasur 
ably  far  from  guessing  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"  So  I  have  thought,  in  all  these  weeks  and  days 
while  we  have  been  together." 

Her  eyes  darkened  as  she  looked  at  him,  but  his 
were  clear  and  calm. 

"Do  you  understand  this?"  she  asked,  and  she 
laid  her  two  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 

"What?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"  This,"  she  said,  very  softly,  drawing  herself  near 
to  him  by  her  hands. 

Then  he  knew,  and  he  would  have  straightened 
himself,  but  her  hands  sprang  to  meet  each  other 
round  his  neck,  and  her  face  was  close  to  his.  But 
the  vision  of  his  own  sinful  mother  rose  in  her  eyes 
to  meet  him. 

She  held  him  fast,  and  three  times  she  kissed  him 
before  she  would  let  him  go. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

GILBERT  had  reached  Paris  in  the  train  of  Duke 
Geoffrey  in  September;  the  Christmas  bells  were  ring 
ing  when  he  first  caught  sight  of  the  walls  and  towers 
of  Rome.  As  he  drew  rein  on  the  crest  of  a  low  hill, 
the  desolate  brown  waste  of  the  Campagna  stretched 
behind  him  mile  upon  mile  to  northward,  toward 
the  impenetrable  forests  of  Viterbo,  and  Rome  was 
at  last  before  him.  Before  him  rose  the  huge  half- 
ruined  walls  of  Aurelian,  battered  by  Goth  and 
Saracen  and  imperial  Greek ;  before  him  towered  the 
fortress  of  Hadrian's  tomb,  vast,  impregnable,  fero 
cious.  Here  and  there  above  the  broken  crenellation 
of  the  city's  battlements  rose  dark  and  slender  towers, 
square  and  round,  marking  the  places  where  strong 
robbers  had  fortified  themselves  within  the  city. 
But  from  the  point  where  Gilbert  halted,  Rome 
seemed  but.a  long  brown  ruin,  with  portions  stand 
ing  whole,  as  brown  as  the  rest  under  the  bright 
depths  of  vaulted  blue,  unflecked  by  the  least  fleece 
of  cloud,  in  the  matchless  clearness  of  the  winter's 
morning.  Profound  disappointment  came  upon  him 
as  he  looked.  With  little  knowledge  and  hardly  any 
information  from  others  who  had  journeyed  by  the 
same  road,  he  had  built  himself  an  imaginary  city 
of  unspeakable  beauty,  wherein  graceful  churches 
rose  out  of  sunlit  streets  and  fair  open  places  planted 

95 


96  VIA   CRUCIS 

with  lordly  avenues  of  trees.  There,  in  his  thoughts, 
walked  companies  of  men  with  faces  like  the  face  of 
the  great  Bernard,  splendid  with  innocence,  radiant 
with  the  hope  of  life.  Thither,  in  his  fancy,  came  the 
true  knights  of  the  earth,  purified  of  sin  by  vigils  in 
the  holy  places  of  the  East,  to  renew  unbroken  vows 
of  chastity  and  charity  and  faith.  There,  in  his 
dream,  dwelt  the  venerable  Father  of  Bishops,  the 
Vicar  of  Christ,  the  successor  of  Peter,  the  Servant 
of  the  servants  of  God,  the  spotless  head  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Church.  There,  in 
his  heart,  he  had  made  the  dwelling  of  whatsoever 
things  are  upright  and  just  and  perfect  in  heaven, 
and  pure  and  beautiful  on  earth.  That  was  the  city 
of  God,  of  which  his  soul  was  the  architect,  and  in 
which  he  was  to  be  a  dweller,  in  peace  that  should 
pass  understanding. 

He  had  left  behind  him  in  Paris  another  vision 
and  one  that  might  well  have  dazzled  him  —  such 
favour  as  falls  to  few ;  such  hopes  as  few  can  plant 
in  their  lives  and  still  fewer  can  rear  to  maturity; 
such  love  as  few  indeed  could  hope  for  —  the  love 
of  supreme  and  royal  beauty. 

When  he  had  ridden  out  of  the  castle  on  the  island, 
older  by  some  months,  richer  by  such  gifts  as  it  was 
no  shame  for  him  to  take  of  Duke  Geoffrey  and  young 
Henry  Plantagenet,  he  had  believed  himself  wiser, 
too,  by  half  a  lifetime. 

He  was  confident  in  his  own  strength,  in  his  own 
wisdom,  in  his  own  endurance;  he  fancied  that  he 
had  fought  against  a  great  temptation,  where  he  had 
in  truth  been  chilled  and  terrified  by  the  haunting 


VIA   CRUCIS  91 

vision  of  another's  evil ;  he  imagined  that  the  little 
sharp  regret,  which  stung  his  heart  with  long 
ing  for  the  sweetness  of  a  sin  that  might  have 
been,  was  the  evil  remnant  of  a  passion  not  wholly 
quenched,  whereas  it  was  but  the  craving  of  a 
natural  vanity  that  had  not  been  strong  enough  to 
overcome  a  repugnance  which  he  himself  only  half 
understood. 

He  seemed  in  his  own  eyes  to  have  made  the  sacri 
fice  of  his  worldly  future  for  the  sake  of  his  knightly 
ideal;  but  in  truth,  to  a  man  without  ambition,  the 
renunciation  had  been  easy  and  had  been  made  in 
acquiescence  with  his  real  desires,  rather  than  in 
opposition  to  them. 

And  now  he  looked  upon  the  city  of  his  hope,  and 
it  crumbled  to  a  dusty  ruin  under  his  very  hand ;  he 
stood  on  ground  made  reverent  by  the  march  of  his 
tory  and  sanctified  by  the  blood  of  Christians,  and  it 
was  but  one  great  wilderness,  of  which  he  himself 
was  the  centre.  His  heart  sank  suddenly  within  him, 
and  his  fingers  clutched  at  the  breast  of  his  tunic 
under  his  surcoat,  as  though  the  pain  were  bodily 
and  real.  Long  he  sat  in  silence,  bending  a  little 
in  the  saddle,  as  if  worn  out  with  fatigue,  though 
he  had  ridden  only  three  hours  since  daybreak. 

"Sir,"  said  his  man  Duns  tan,  interrupting  his 
master's  meditations,  "here  is  an  inn,  and  we  may 
find  water  for  our  horses." 

Gilbert  looked  up  indifferently,  and  then,  as  there 
was  no  near  building  in  sight,  he  turned  inquiringly 
to  his  man.  A  sardonic  smile  played  on  Dunstan's 
lean  dark  face  as  he  pointed  to  what  Gilbert  had 


98  VIA   CBUCIS 

taken  for  three  haystacks.  They  were,  indeed,  noth« 
ing  but  conical  straw  huts  standing  a  few  steps  aside 
from  the  road,  thirty  yards  down  the  hill.  The 
entrance  to  each  was  low  and  dark,  and  from  the  one 
issued  wreaths  of  blue  smoke,  slowly  rising  in  the 
still,  cold  air.  At  the  same  entrance  a  withered 
bough  proclaimed  that  wine  was  to  be  had.  A  ditch 
beyond  the  furthest  hut  was  full  of  water,  and  at 
some  distance  from  it  a  rude  shed  of  boughs  had  been 
set  up  to  afford  the  horses  of  travellers  some  shelter 
from  winter  rain  or  summer  sun.  As  Gilbert  looked, 
a  man  came  out,  bowing  himself  almost  double  to 
pass  under  the  low  aperture.  He  wore  long  goatskin 
breeches  and  a  brown  homespun  tunic,  like  a  monk's 
frock,  cut  short  above  the  knees,  and  girdled  with 
a  twisted  thong.  Shaggy  black  hair  thatched  his 
square  head,  and  a  thin  black  beard  framed  the  yellow 
face,  which  had  the  fever-stricken  look  of  the  dwellers 
in  the  Campagna. 

Though  this  was  the  first  halting-place  of  the  kind 
to  which  Gilbert  had  come  in  the  Roman  plain,  he 
was  no  longer  easily  surprised  by  anything,  and  he 
did  not  even  smile  as  he  rode  forward  and  dis 
mounted. 

Besides  his  own  men  he  had  with  him  the  mule 
teer  who  acted  as  guide  and  interpreter,  and  without 
whom  it  was  impossible  for  a  foreigner  to  travel  in 
Italy.  The  peasant  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  led 
Gilbert  to  the  entrance  of  the  hut  where  he  usually 
served  his  customers  with  food  and  drink,  and  in  the 
gloom  within  Gilbert  saw  a  rough-hewn  table  and 
two  benches  standing  upon  the  well-swept  floor  of 


VIA   CRUCIS  99 

beaten  earth.  But  the  Englishman  made  signs  that 
he  would  sit  outside,  and  the  scanty  furniture  was 
brought  out  into  the  open  air.  The  third  hut  was  a 
refuge  and  a  sleeping-place  for  travellers  overtaken 
at  nightfall  on  their  way  to  the  city. 

"The  monk  is  asleep,"  said  the  peasant  host,  lift 
ing  his  finger  to  his  lips  because  Gilbert's  men  were 
talking  loud  near  the  entrance. 

Gilbert  understood  as  much  as  that  without  his 
interpreter;  for  in  those  days  the  Provencal  tongue 
was  an  accomplishment  of  all  well-born  persons,  and 
it  was  not  unlike  certain  dialects  of  Italy. 

"  A  monk  ?  "  repeated  Gilbert,  indifferently. 

"He  calls  himself  one,  and  he  wears  a  grey 
frock,"  answered  the  other.  "But  we  are  glad  when 
he  comes,  for  he  brings  us  good  fortune.  And  you 
may  see  that  I  speak  the  truth,  since  he  came  late  in 
the  night,  and  your  lordship  is  the  first  guest  at  the 
huts  this  morning." 

"  Then  you  know  him  well  ?  " 

"Every  one  knows  him,"  answered  the  man. 

He  turned,  and  Gilbert  saw  him  lift  up  a  hurdle 
of  branches  and  disappear  underground.  His  cellar 
was  deep  and  cool,  one  of  the  many  caverns  which 
communicate  with  the  catacombs  and  riddle  the 
Campagna  from  Rome  to  the  hills.  Gilbert  seated 
himself  upon  the  smaller  of  the  two  benches  at  the 
end  of  the  table;  his  three  men  took  the  other,  and 
laid  aside  their  caps  out  of  respect  for  their  master. 
The  horses  were  tethered  under  the  shed  of  boughs 
till  they  should  be  cool  enough  to  be  watered.  The 
southern  side  of  the  hut  was  sunny  and  warm,  and 


100  VIA   CKUCIS 

the  place  smelled  of  dry  grass,  of  clean  straw,  and, 
faintly,  of  smouldering  fire. 

Gilbert  was  hardly  conscious  that  he  was  thinking 
of  anything  as  he  stared  out  at  the  rolling  waste,  fold 
ing  his  hands  together  upon  the  hilt  of  his  long  sword. 
Just  then  a  man  emerged  from  the  third  hut,  drew 
himself  up  facing  the  sun,  and  rubbed  his  eyes  be 
fore  he  looked  toward  the  party  at  the  other  table. 
When  he  saw  them,  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and 
then  came  up  to  Gilbert  with  the  apparent  intention 
of  addressing  him. 

Above  the  height  of  average  men,  the  figure  looked 
unnaturally  tall  by  its  gauntness,  and  the  heavy 
folds  of  the  grey  woollen  frock  fell  together  below 
the  breast  as  if  they  covered  a  shadow.  Long, 
bony  hands,  that  seemed  woven  of  sinews  and  leather, 
but  which  were  not  without  a  certain  nervous  refine 
ment,  hung  from  loose- jointed  brown  wrists  left  bare 
by  sleeves  that  were  too  short.  The  head  was  so 
roughly  angular  that  even  the  thick  masses  of  dark 
brown  hair  which  fell  to  the  shoulders  could  not  make 
the  angles  seem  like  curves,  and  the  face  displayed 
the  fervent  features  of  a  fanatic  —  dark,  hollow 
cheeks,  deep-sunk,  blazing  eyes,  the  vast  lines  of  an 
ascetic  mouth,  a  great  jaw  scarcely  fringed  by  the 
scant  black  beard.  Gilbert  saw  before  him  a  face 
and  figure  that  might  have  belonged  to  a  hermit  of 
Egypt,  an  ascetic  of  the  Syrian  desert,  a  John  the 
Baptist,  an  Anthony  of  Thebes.  The  man  wore  a 
broad  leathern  girdle ;  a  blackened  rosary,  with  beads 
as  large  as  walnuts,  hung  from  his  side  and  ended  in 
a  rough  cross  of  wrought  iron. 


VIA  CKUCIS  101 

Gilbert  half  rose  from  his  seat,  moved  to  one  end 
of  the  short  bench,  and  invited  the  stranger  to  sit 
beside  him.  The  monk  bent  his  head  slightly,  but 
not  a  feature  moved  as  he  took  the  proffered  place  in 
silence.  He  folded  his  great  hands  on  the  edge  of 
the  rough-hewn  board  and  stared  at  the  ruinous 
brown  city  to  southward. 

"You  are  a  stranger,"  he  said  in  Provengal,  after 
a  long  pause  and  in  a  singularly  musical  voice,  but 
without  turning  his  eyes  to  Gilbert. 

"I  have  never  seen  Rome  before,"  answered  Gil 
bert. 

"  Rome !  "  There  was  a  sort  of  almost  heartbroken 
pity  in  the  tone  of  the  single  syllable  that  fell  from 
the  lips  of  the  wandering  monk. 

"You  have  never  seen  Rome  before?  There  it 
lies,  all  that  is  left  of  it  —  the  naked  bones  of  the 
most  splendid,  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  powerful 
city  in  the  world,  murdered  by  power,  done  to  death 
by  popes  and  emperors,  by  prefects  and  barons, 
sapped  of  life  by  the  evil  canker  of  empire,  and  left 
there  like  a  dead  dog  in  the  Campagna,  to  be  a  prey 
to  carrion  beasts  and  a  horror  to  living  men." 

The  gaunt  stranger  set  his  elbows  upon  the  table 
and  bit  his  nails  savagely,  while  his  burning  eyes 
fixed  themselves  on  the  distant  towers  of  Rome. 
Then  Gilbert  saw  that  this  man  was  no  common 
wandering  friar,  begging  a  meal  for  his  frock's  sake, 
but  one  who  had  thoughts  of  his  own,  and  with  whom 
to  think  was  to  suffer. 

"It  is  true,"  said  Gilbert,  "that  Rome  is  less  fair 
to  see  than  I  had  supposed." 


102  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  And  you  are  deceived  of  your  hopes  before  you 
have  entered  her  gate,"  returned  the  other.  "Are 
you  the  first?  Are  you  the  last?  Has  Rome  made 
an  end  of  deceiving,  and  found  the  termination  of 
disappointment?  Rome  has  deceived  and  disap 
pointed  the  world.  Rome  has  robbed  the  world  of 
its  wealth,  and  devoured  it,  and  grown  gaunt  to  the 
bone.  Rome  has  robbed  men  of  their  bodies  and  of 
their  lives,  and  has  torn  them  limb  from  limb  wan 
tonly,  as  a  spoiled  hawk  tears  a  pheasant  and  scatters 
the  bright  feathers  on  the  ground.  Rome  has  robbed 
men  of  their  souls  and  has  fed  hell  with  them  to  its 
surfeit.  And  now,  in  her  turn,  her  grasping  hands 
have  withered  at  the  wrists,  her  insatiable  lips  are 
cracking  upon  her  loosening  teeth,  and  the  mistress 
of  the  world  is  the  sport  of  Jews  and  usurers." 

"You  speak  bitterly,"  said  Gilbert,  looking  curi 
ously  at  his  new  acquaintance. 

The  monk  sighed,  and  his  eyes  softened  wonder 
fully  as  he  turned  to  the  young  man.  He  had  been 
speaking  in  a  tone  that  slowly  rose  to  shrillness,  like 
a  cry  of  bodily  pain.  When  he  spoke  again  his  voice 
was  low  and  sweet. 

"Bitterly,  but  for  her  sake,  not  for  mine,"  he  said. 
"  If  I  have  given  my  life  for  her,  she  will  not  give 
me  hers.  Though  I  have  laid  at  her  feet  all  that  I 
had,  she  shall  put  nothing  into  my  hand  nor  give  me 
anything  but  a  ditch  and  a  handful  of  earth  for  my 
bones,  unless  some  emperor  or  pope  shall  leave  them 
upon  a  gallows.  But  I  have  asked  of  her,  for  her 
self  and  her  own  sake,  that  she  should  do  by  herself 
honourably,  and  draw  her  neck  from  the  yoke  and 


VIA  CRUCIS  10S 

shake  off  the  burdens  under  which  she  has  stumbled 
and  fallen.  I  have  asked  of  her  to  stand  upright 
again,  to  refuse  to  eat  from  the  hand  that  has 
wounded  her,  and  not  to  hearken  to  the  voice  of 
violence  and  cursing.  I  have  asked  that  Rome 
should  cast  out  the  Stranger  Emperor,  and  cast  down 
the  churchman  from  the  king's  throne,  and  take 
from  him  the  king's  mask.  I  have  asked  Rome 
to  face  her  high  robbers  whom  she  calls  barons, 
her  corruption,  her  secret  weakness,  as  a  brave  man 
faces  his  sins  and  confesses  them  and  steadfastly 
purposes  to  offend  God  no  more.  All  this  I  have 
asked,  and  in  part  she  has  heard;  and  I  have  paid 
the  price  of  my  asking,  for  I  am  an  outcast  of  many 
kingdoms  and  a  man  excommunicated  under  the 
Major  Interdiction." 

A  gentle  smile,  that  might  have  been  half  indiffer 
ence,  half  pity,  wreathed  the  ascetic  lips  as  he  spoke 
the  last  words.  They  were  not  empty  words  in  those 
days,  and  unawares  Gilbert  shrank  a  little  from  his 
companion. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  a  devout  person,"  said  the  friar, 
quietly.  "  Let  my  presence  not  offend  you  at  your 
meal.  I  go  my  way." 

But  as  he  began  to  rise,  Gilbert's  hand  went  out, 
and  his  fingers  met  round  the  skeleton  arm  in  the 
loose  grey  sleeve. 

"Stay,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  break  your  fast  with 
us.  I  am  not  such  a  one  as  you  think." 

"You  shrank  from  me,"  said  the  stranger,  hesitat 
ing  to  resume  his  seat. 

"  I  meant  no  discourtesy, "  answered  Gilbert.     "  Be 


104  VIA   CKUCIS 

seated,  sir.  You  call  yourself  an  outcast.  I  am  but 
little  better  than  a  wanderer,  disinherited  of  his  own." 

"And  come  you  hither  for  the  Pope's  justice?" 
asked  the  friar,  scornfully.  "There  is  no  Pope  in 
Rome.  Our  last  was  killed  at  the  head  of  a  band  of 
fighting  men,  on  the  slope  of  the  Capitol,  last  year, 
and  he  who  is  Pope  now  is  as  much  a  wanderer  as 
you  and  I.  And  in  Rome  we  have  a  Republic  and 
a  Senate,  and  justice  of  a  kind,  but  only  for  Romans, 
and  claiming  no  dominion  over  mankind  ;  for  to  be 
free  means  to  set  free,  to  live  means  to  let  live." 

"I  shall  see  what  this  freedom  of  yours  is  like," 
said  Gilbert,  thoughtfully.  "  For  my  part  I  am  not 
used  to  such  thoughts,  and  though  I  have  read  some 
history  of  Rome,  I  could  never  understand  the  Roman 
Republic.  With  us  the  strongest  is  master  by  natural 
law.  Why  should  the  strong  man  share  with  the 
weak  what  he  may  keep  for  himself?  Or  if  he  must, 
in  your  ideal,  then  why  should  not  the  strong  nation 
share  her  strength  and  wealth  with  her  weak  neigh 
bour?  Is  it  not  enough  that  the  strong  should  not 
wantonly  bruise  the  weak  nor  deal  unfairly  by  him  ? 
The  Normans  can  see  no  more  harm  or  injustice  in 
holding  than  we  see  in  taking  what  we  can  ;  and 
so  we  shall  never  understand  your  republics  and 
your  senates." 

"  Are  you  a  Norman,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  friar.  "  Are 
you  a  kinsman  of  Guiscard  and  of  them  that  last 
burnt  Rome  ?  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  civilization 
of  a  republic  should  seem  strange  to  you !  " 

Gilbert  was  listening,  but  his  eyes  had  wandered 
from  the  friar's  face  in  the  direction  of  the  dusty  road 


VTA  CKUCIS  105 

that  led  to  Rome,  and  between  his  companion's  words 
his  quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound  of  hoofs,  although 
no  horses  were  yet  in  sight  but  his  own.  Just  as 
the  friar  ceased  speaking,  however,  a  troop  of  seven 
riders  appeared  at  the  turn  of  the  road.  They  were 
rough-looking  men  in  long  brown  cloaks  that  were 
in  tatters  at  the  edge ;  they  wore  round  caps  of  mail 
on  their  heads,  with  a  broad  leathern  strap  under  the 
chin;  their  faces  were  dark,  their  beards  black  and 
unkempt,  and  they  rode  small,  ragged  horses,  as  ill 
cared  for  as  themselves. 

Gilbert  sprang  up  almost  as  soon  as  he  saw  them, 
for  he  knew  that,  not  being  travellers,  they  could 
hardly  be  anything  but  highwaymen.  His  own  men 
were  on  their  feet  as  soon  as  he,  while  the  muleteer 
guide  disappeared  round  the  hut  quietly  and  swiftly, 
like  a  mouse  when  a  cat  is  in  sight.  Gilbert  made 
straight  for  his  horses,  followed  by  Dunstan  and  the 
groom ;  but  before  he  could  reach  them,  two  of  the 
riders  had  jumped  the  ditch  from  the  road  and  inter 
cepted  him,  while  the  others  rode  on  toward  the  shed 
to  carry  off  his  horses.  His  sword  was  out  in  a  flash, 
his  men  were  beside  him,  their  weapons  in  their 
hands,  and  the  grimy  riders  drew  theirs  also ;  it  was 
like  a  little  storm  of  steel  in  the  bright  air.  The 
Englishman's  long  blade  whirled  half  a  circle  above 
his  head  ;  the  blow  would  beat  down  the  horseman's 
guard  and  draw  blood,  too. 

But  in  mid-air  his  wrist  was  seized  in  the  sudden 
grasp  of  sinewy  fingers,  and  the  friar  was  already 
between  him  and  his  adversary,  warning  the  other 
off  with  his  outstretched  hand.  The  loose  sleeve  had 


106  VIA   CRUCIS 

slipped  back  from  his  wrist,  baring  a  brown,  emaciated 
arm  and  elbow  upon  which  the  swollen  veins  seemed 
to  twist  and  climb  like  leafless  vines  upon  a  with 
ered  tree.  His  lips  were  white,  his  eyes  blazed,  and 
his  voice  was  suddenly  harsh  and  commanding. 

"  Back !  "  he  cried,  almost  savagely. 

To  Gilbert's  very  great  astonishment,  the  single 
word  produced  an  instantaneous  and  wonderful  effect. 
The  riders  lowered  their  weapons,  looked  at  one 
another,  and  then  sheathed  them ;  the  others,  who  were 
loosing  Gilbert's  horses  and  mules,  suddenly  desisted 
at  the  sound  of  the  friar's  voice.  Then  the  one  near 
est  to  Gilbert,  who  was  a  shade  less  grimy  than  the 
rest,  and  who  wore  in  his  cap  a  feather  from  a  pheas 
ant's  tail,  slipped  to  the  ground,  and  bending  low 
under  his  tattered  brown  cloak,  took  the  hem  of  the 
monk's  frock  in  his  right  hand  and  kissed  it  fer 
vently.  Gilbert  stood  aside,  leaning  upon  his  un 
sheathed  sword,  and  his  wonder  grew  as  he  looked  on. 

"We  ask  your  paxdon,  Fra  Arnoldo,"  cried  the 
chief,  still  kneeling.  "How  could  we  guess  that 
you  were  breakfasting  out  here  this  morning  ?  We 
thought  you  far  in  the  north. " 

"And  therefore  thought  yourselves  free  to  rob 
strangers  and  steal  cattle,  and  cut  one  anothers' 
throats  ?  " 

"  This  is  probably  a  part  of  the  civilization  of  a 
republic,"  observed  Gilbert,  with  a  smile. 

But  the  highwaymen,  all  dismounted  now,  came 
crowding  to  the  feet  of  Arnold  of  Brescia  in  pro 
found,  if  not  lasting,  contrition,  and  they  begged  a 
blessing  of  the  excommunicated  monk. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GILBERT  lodged  at  the  sign  of  the  Lion,  over 
against  the  tower  of  Nona,  by  the  bridge  of  Sant' 
Angelo.  The  inn  was  as  old  as  the  times  of  Charle 
magne,  when  it  had  been  named  in  honour  of  Pope 
Leo,  who  had  crowned  him  emperor.  But  the  quarter 
was  at  that  time  in  the  hands  of  the  great  Jewish 
race  of  Pierleoni,  whose  first  antipope,  Anacletus, 
had  not  been  dead  many  years,  and  who,  though  they 
still  held  the  castle  and  many  towers  and  fortresses 
in  Rome,  had  not  succeeded  in  imposing  the  antipope 
Victor  upon  the  Roman  people,  against  the  will  of 
Bernard  of  Clairvaux. 

Rome  lay  along  the  river,  in  those  days,  like 
wreckage  and  scum  thrown  up  on  the  shore  of  a 
wintry  sea.  Some  twenty  thousand  human  beings 
were  huddled  together  in  smoky  huts,  most  of  which 
were  built  against  the  outer  walls  and  towers  of  the 
nobles'  strongholds  —  a  miserable  population,  living 
squalidly  in  terrible  times,  starving  while  the  nobles 
fought  with  one  another,  rising  now  and  then  like  a 
vision  of  famine  and  sword  to  take  back  by  force  the 
right  of  life  which  force  had  almost  taken  from  them. 
Gilbert  wandered  through  the  crooked,  unpaved 
streets,  in  and  out  of  gloomy  courts  and  over  deso 
late  wastes  and  open  places,  the  haunts  of  ravenous 
dogs  and  homeless  cats  that  kept  themselves  alive 
on  the  choice  pickings  of  the  city's  garbage.  He 

107 


108  VIA   CEUCIS 

went  armed  and  followed  by  his  men,  as  he  saw  that 
other  gentlemen  of  his  condition  did,  and  when  he 
knelt  in  a  church  to  hear  mass  or  to  say  a  prayer,  he 
was  careful  to  kneel  with  his  back  to  the  wall  or  to 
a  pillar,  lest  some  light-handed  worshipper  should 
set  a  razor  to  his  wallet  strings  or  his  sword-belt. 

At  his  inn,  too,  he  lived  in  a  state  of  armed  defence 
against  every  one,  including  the  host  and  the  other 
guests;  and  the  weekly  settlement  was  a  weekly 
battle  between  Dunstan,  who  paid  his  master's  scores, 
the  little  Tuscan  interpreter,  and  Ser  Clemente,  the 
innkeeper,  in  which  the  Tuscan  had  the  most  un 
comfortable  position,  finding  himself  placed  buffer- 
like  between  the  honest  man  and  the  thief,  and 
exposed  to  equally  hard  hitting  from  both.  Rome 
was  poor  and  dirty  and  a  den  of  thieves,  murderers, 
and  all  malefactors,  dominated  alternately  by  a  family 
of  half-converted  Jews,  who  terrorized  the  city  from 
strong  points  of  vantage,  and  then,  on  other  days,  by 
the  mob  that  followed  Arnold  of  Brescia  when  he 
appeared  in  the  city,  and  who  would  have  torn  down 
stone  walls  with  their  bare  hands  at  his  merest 
words,  as  they  would  have  faced  the  barons'  steel 
with  naked  breast.  At  such  times  men  left  their 
tasks  —  the  shoemaker  his  last,  the  smith  his  anvil, 
the  crooked  tailor  his  bench  —  to  follow  the  northern 
monk  to  the  Capitol,  or  to  some  church  where  he  was 
to  speak  to  them ;  and  after  the  men  came  the  women, 
and  after  the  women  the  children,  all  drawn  along 
by  the  mysterious  attraction  which  they  could 
neither  understand  nor  resist.  The  tramping  of 
many  feet  made  a  dull  bass  to  the  sound  of  many 


VIA  CEUCIS  109 

Miman  voices,  high  and  low,  crying  out  lustily  for 
'Arnold,  a  Senate,  and  the  Roman  Republic ' ;  and 
then  taking  up  the  song  of  the  day,  which  was  a 
ballad  of  liberty,  in  a  long  minor  chant  that  broke 
into  a  jubilant  major  in  the  burden  —  the  sort  of 
song  the  Romans  have  always  made  in  time  of  change, 
the  kind  of  ballad  that  goes  before  the  end  of  a  king 
dom,  like  a  warning  voice  of  fate. 

On  such  days,  when  the  mob  went  howling  and 
singing  after  its  idol,  southwards  to  the  Capitol 
or  even  to  the  far  Lateran  where  Marcus  Aurelius 
sat  upon  his  bronze  horse  watching  the  ages  go  by, 
then  Gilbert  loved  to  wander  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion,  across  the  castle  bridge  and  under  the  haunted 
battlements  of  Sant'  Angelo,  where  evil  Theodora's 
ghost  walked  on  autumn  nights  when  the  south  wind 
blew,  and  through  the  long  wreck  of  the  fair  portico 
that  had  once  extended  from  the  bridge  to  the  basilica, 
till  he  came  to  the  broad  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the 
walled  garden-court  of  old  Saint  Peter's.  There  he 
loved  to  sit  musing  among  the  cypresses,  wondering 
at  the  vast  bronze  pine-cone  and  the  great  brass  pea 
cocks  which  Symmachus  had  brought  thither  from 
the  ruins  of  Agrippa's  baths,  wherein  the  terrible 
Crescenzi  had  fortified  themselves  during  more  than 
a  hundred  years.  Sitting  there  alone,  while  Dun- 
stan  puzzled  his  uncertain  learning  over  deep-cut 
inscriptions  of  long  ago,  and  Alric,  the  groom,  threw 
his  dagger  at  a  mark  on  one  of  the  cypress  trees,  hun 
dreds  of  times  in  succession,  and  rarely  missing  his 
aim,  Gilbert  felt,  in  the  silence  he  loved,  that  the  soul 
of  Rome  had  taken  hold  of  his  soul,  and  that  in  Rome 


110  VIA   CEUCIS 

it  was  good  to  live  for  the  sake  of  dreaming,  and  that 
dreaming  itself  was  life.  The  past,  with  his  mother's 
sins,  his  own  sorrows,  the  friendship  of  the  boy 
Henry,  the  love  of  Queen  Eleanor,  were  all  infinitely 
far  removed  and  dim.  The  future,  once  the  magic 
mirror  in  which  he  had  seen  displayed  the  glory  of 
knightly  deeds  which  he  was  to  do,  was  taken  up 
like  a  departing  vision  into  the  blue  Roman  sky. 
Only  the  present  remained,  the  idle,  thoughtful, 
half-narcotic  present,  with  a  mazy  charm  no  man 
could  explain,  since  so  far  as  any  bodily  good  was 
concerned  there  was  less  comfort  to  be  got  for 
money,  more  fever  to  be  taken  for  nothing,  and  a 
larger  element  of  danger  in  everyday  life  in  Rome 
than  in  any  city  Gilbert  had  traversed  in  his  wander 
ings.  Yet  he  lingered  and  loved  it  rather  for  what 
it  denied  him  than  for  what  it  gave  him,  for  the 
thoughts  it  called  up  rather  than  for  the  sights  it 
offered,  for  that  in  it  which  was  unknown,  and  there 
fore  dear  to  dwell  upon,  rather  than  for  the  sadness 
and  the  darkness  and  the  evil  that  all  men  might 
feel. 

But  through  all  he  felt,  and  in  all  he  saw,  welding 
and  joining  the  whole  together,  there  was  the  still 
fervour  of  that  something  which  he  had  at  first  known 
in  Sheering  Abbey  —  something  to  which  every  fibre 
of  his  nature  responded,  and  which,  indeed,  was 
the  mainspring  of  the  world  in  that  age.  For  devo 
tion  was  then  more  needful  than  bread,  and  it  profited 
a  man  more  to  fight  against  unbelievers  for  his 
soul's  sake  than  to  wear  hollows  in  altar-steps  with 
his  knees,  or  to  forget  his  own  name  and  put  off 


VIA   CRTJCIS  111 

his  own  proper  character  and  being,  as  a  nameless 
unit  in  a  great  religious  order. 

At  first  the  enormous  disappointment  of  Rome  had 
saddened  and  hurt  him.  He  had  fancied  that  where 
there  was  no  head  there  could  be  no  house,  that 
where  the  leader  was  gone  the  army  must  scatter 
and  be  hewn  in  pieces.  But  as  he  stayed  on,  from 
week  to  week  and  from  month  to  month,  he  learned 
to  understand  that  the  Church  had  never  been  more 
alive,  more  growing,  and  more  militant  than  at  that 
very  time  when  the  true  and  rightful  pontiffs  were 
made  outcasts  one  after  the  other,  while  their  places, 
earthly  and  spiritual,  were  given  to  instruments  of 
feud  and  party.  For  the  Church  was  the  world, 
while  Rome  meant  seven  or  eight  thousand  half- 
starved  and  turbulent  ruffians,  with  their  wives  and 
children,  eager  always  for  change,  because  it  seemed 
that  no  change  could  be  for  the  worse. 

But  in  the  ancient  basilica  of  Saint  Peter  there  was 
peace ;  there  the  white-haired  priests  solemnly  offici 
ated  in  the  morning  and  at  noon,  and  toward  evening 
more  than  a  hundred  rich  voices  of  boys  and  men 
sang  the  vesper  psalms  in  the  Gregorian  tones; 
there  slim  youths  in  violet  and  white  swung  silver 
censers  before  the  high  altar,  and  the  incense  floated 
in  rich  clouds  upon  the  sunbeams  that  fell  slanting 
to  the  ancient  floor  ;  there,  as  in  many  a  minster 
and  cloister  of  the  world,  the  Church  was  still  her 
self,  as  she  was,  and  is,  and  always  will  be;  there 
words  were  spoken  and  solemn  prayers  intoned  which 
had  been  familiar  to  the  lips  of  the  Apostles,  which 
are  familiar  to  our  lips  and  ears  to-day,  and  of 


112  VIA  CBUCIS 

"which  we  are  sure  that  lips  unborn  will  repeat 
them  to  centuries  of  generations.  Gilbert,  type  of 
Christian  layman,  kneeled  in  the  old  cathedral,  and 
chanted  softly  after  the  choir,  and  breathed  the 
incerise-laden  air  that  seemed  as  natural  to  him  as 
ever  the  hay-scented  breeze  of  summer  had  been,  and 
he  was  infinitely  refreshed  in  soul  and  body.  But 
then  again,  alone  in  his  room  at  the  Lion  Inn,  late 
in  the  night,  when  he  had  been  poring  over  the 
beautifully  written  copy  of  Boethius,  given  him  by 
the  Abbot  of  Sheering,  he  often  opened  wide  the 
wooden  shutters  of  his  window  and  looked  out  at 
the  castle  and  at  the  flowing  river  that  eddied  and 
gleamed  in  the  moonlight.  Then  life  rose  before 
him  in  a  mystery  for  him  to  solve  by  deeds,  and  he 
knew  that  he  was  not  to  dream  out  his  years  in  the 
shadowy  city,  and  the  strong  old  instinct  of  his  race 
bade  him  go  forth  and  cut  his  fortune  out  of  the 
world's  flank  alive.  Then  his  blood  rose  in  his 
throat,  and  his  hands  hardened  one  upon  the  other, 
as  he  leaned  over  the  stone  sill  and  drew  the  night 
air  sharply  between  his  closed  teeth ;  and  he  resolved 
then  to  leave  Rome  and  to  go  on  in  search  of  strange 
lands  and  masterful  deeds.  On  such  nights,  when 
the  wind  blew  down  the  river  in  the  spring,  it  brought 
to  him  all  the  hosts  of  fancy,  spirit  armies,  ghostly 
knights,  and  fairy  maidens,  and  the  forecast  shadows 
of  things  to  come.  There  was  a  tragic  note,  also ; 
for  on  his  right,  as  he  looked,  there  rose  the 
dark  tower  of  Nona,  and  from  the  highest  turret  he 
could  clearly  see  in  the  moonlight  how  the  long 
rain-bleached  rope  hung  down  and  swayed  in  the 


VIA   CKUCIS  113 

breeze,  and  the  noose  at  the  end  of  it  softly  knocked 
upon  the  tower  wall ;  more  than  once,  also,  when  he 
had  looked  out  in  the  morning,  he  had  seen  a  corpse 
hanging  there  by  the  neck,  stiff  and  staring  and  wet 
with  dew. 

But  when  the  spring  day  dawned  and  the  birds 
sang  at  his  window,  and  when,  looking  out,  he  felt 
the  breath  of  the  sweet  south  and  saw  that  Rome 
smiled  again,  then  his  resolutions  failed,  and  instead 
of  bidding  Dunstan  pack  his  armour  and  his  fine 
clothes  for  a  journey,  he  made  his  men  mount  and 
ride  with  him  to  the  far  regions  of  the  city.  Often 
he  loitered  away  the  afternoon  in  the  desolate  regions 
of  the  Aventine,  riding  slowly  from  one  lonely 
church  to  another,  and  sometimes  spending  an  hour 
in  conversation  with  a  solitary  priest  who,  by  living 
much  alone  and  among  inscriptions  and  old  carvings, 
had  gathered  a  little  more  learning  than  was  common 
among  the  unlettered  Romans. 

He  met  with  no  adventures ;  for  though  the  high 
ways  in  the  country  swarmed  with  robbers  always 
on  the  watch  for  a  merchant's  train  or  for  a  rich 
traveller,  yet  within  the  city's  limits,  small  as  was 
the  authority  of  the  Senate  and  of  the  Prefect,  thieves 
dared  not  band  together  in  numbers,  and  no  two  or 
three  of  them  would  have  cared  to  come  to  blows 
with  Gilbert  and  his  men. 

Nor  did  he  make  friends  in  Rome.  His  first  in 
tention  had  been  to  present  himself  to  the  principal 
baron  in  the  city,  as  a  traveller  of  good  birth,  and 
to  request  the  advantages  of  friendship  and  protec 
tion;  and  so  he  would  have  done  in  any  other 


114  VIA  CRTJCIS 

European  city.  But  he  had  soon  learned  that  Rome 
was  far  behind  the  rest  of  the  world  in  the  social 
practices  of  chivalry,  and  that  in  placing  himself 
under  a  Roman  baron's  protection  he  would,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  be  taking  service  instead  of 
accepting  hospitality.  Even  so,  he  might  have  been 
willing  to  take  such  a  position  for  the  sake  of  adven 
ture  ;  yet  he  could  by  no  means  make  up  his  mind 
to  a  choice  between  the  half-Jewish  Pierleoni  and 
the  rough-mannered  Frangipani.  To  the  red-handed 
Crescenzi  he  would  not  go;  the  Colonna  of  that  time 
were  established  on  the  heights  of  Tusculum,  and  the 
Orsini,  friends  to  the  Pope,  had  withdrawn  to  distant 
Galera,  in  the  fever-haunted  marsh  northwest  of  Rome. 
But  here  and  there  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
a  priest  or  a  monk  whose  learned  conversation  har 
monized  with  his  thoughts  and  helped  the  grave 
illusion  in  which  —  perhaps  out  of  sheer  idleness  — 
he  loved  to  think  himself  back  in  the  abbey  in  Eng 
land.  And  so  he  led  a  life  unlike  the  lives  around 
him,  and  many  of  the  people  in  the  quarter  learned 
to  know  him  by  sight,  and  called  him  and  his 
men  'the  English';  and  as  most  of  the  people  of 
Rome  were  very  much  occupied  with  their  own 
affairs,  chiefly  evil,  Gilbert  was  allowed  to  live  as 
he  pleased.  But  for  the  fact  that  even  his  well-filled 
purse  must  in  the  course  of  time  be  exhausted,  he 
might  have  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the 
Lion  Inn,  by  the  bridge,  carelessly  meditative  and 
simply  happy.  But  other  forces  were  at  work  to 
guide  his  life  into  other  channels,  and  he  had  reck 
oned  ill  when  he  had  fancied,  being  himself  unmoved, 


VIA  CRUCIS  115 

that  the  love  of  such  a  woman  as  Queen  Eleanor  was 
a  mere  incident  without  consequence,  forgotten  like 
a  flower  of  last  year's  blossoming. 

Several  times  during  the  winter  and  in  the  spring 
that  followed,  the  friar  Arnold  came  to  see  him  in 
his  lodgings  and  talked  of  the  great  things  that  were 
coming,  of  the  redemption  of  man  from  man  by  the 
tearing  down  of  all  sovereign  power,  whether  of  pope 
or  emperor,  or  king  or  prince,  to  make  way  for  the 
millennium  of  a  universal  republic.  Then  the  fanat 
ic's  burning  eyes  flashed  like  beacons,  his  long  arms 
made  sudden  and  wild  gestures,  his  soft  brown  hair 
stood  from  his  head  as  though  lifted  by  a  passing 
breeze,  and  his  whole  being  was  transfigured  in  the 
flash  of  his  own  eloquence.  When  he  spoke  to 
the  Romans  with  that  voice  and  'with  that  look, 
they  rose  quickly  to  a  tumult,  as  the  sea  under  a 
gale,  and  he  could  guide  them  in  their  storming  to 
ends  of  destruction  and  terror.  But  there  was  no 
drop  of  southern  blood  in  Gilbert's  veins  nor  any 
thing  to  which  th&  passionate  Italian's  eloquence 
appealed.  Instead  of  catching  fire,  he  argued ;  in 
stead  of  joining  Arnold  in  his  attempt  to  turn  the 
world  into  a  republic,  he  was  more  and  more  per 
suaded  of  the  excellence  of  all  he  had  left  behind  him 
in  the  north.  He  incarnated  that  aristocratic  temper 
which  has  in  all  times,  since  Duke  William  crossed 
the  water,  leavened  the  strong  mass  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  character,  balancing  its  rude  democratic 
strength  with  the  keenness  of  a  higher  physical 
organization  and  the  nobility  of  a  more  disinterested 
daring,  and  again  and  again  rousing  the  English- 


116  VIA   CRUCIS 

speaking  races  to  life  and  conquest,  when  they  were 
sunk  deep  in  the  sordid  interests  of  trade  and  money- 
making.  So  when  Arnold  talked  of  laws  and  insti 
tutions  which  should  again  make  Rome  the  mistress 
of  the  world,  Gilbert  answered  him  by  talking  of 
men  who  had  the  strength  to  take  the  world  and  to 
be  its  masters  and  make  it  obey  whatsoever  laws 
they  saw  fit  to  impose.  Between  the  two  there  was 
the  everlasting  difference  between  theory  and  action ; 
and  though  it  chanced  that  just  then  Arnold,  the 
dreamer,  was  in  the  lead  of  change  and  revolution, 
while  Gilbert,  the  fighter,  was  idling  away  weeks 
and  months  in  a  dream,  yet  the  fact  was  the  same, 
and  in  manly  strength  and  inward  simplicity  of 
thought  Gilbert  Warde,  the  Norman,  was  far  nearer 
to  the  man  who  made  Rome  imperial  than  was  the 
eloquent  Italian  who  built  the  mistress  city  of  his 
thoughts  out  of  ideas  and  theories,  carved  and 
hewn  into  shapes  of  beauty  by  the  tremendous  tools 
of  his  wit  and  his  words.  At  the  root  of  the  great 
difference  between  the  two  there  was  on  the  one  side 
the  Norman's  centralization  of  the  world  in  himself, 
as  being  for  himself,  and  on  the  other  the  Latin's 
power  and  readiness  to  forget  himself  in  the  imagi 
nations  of  an  ideal  state. 

"Men  are  talking  of  a  second  Crusade,"  said 
Arnold,  one  day,  when  he  and  Gilbert  had  chanced 
to  meet  in  the  garden  court  of  Saint  Peter's. 

Gilbert  was  standing  with  his  back  against  one  of 
the  cypress  trees,  watching  the  fiery  monk  with 
thoughtful  eyes. 

"They  talk  of  Crusades,"  said  Arnold,  stopping 


VIA  CKUCIS  117 

to  face  the  young  man.  "  They  talk  of  sending  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  of  Christian  men  to  die  every 
death  under  God's  sun  in  Palestine  —  for  what?  To 
save  men  ?  To  lift  up  a  race  ?  To  plant  good,  that 
good  may  grow?  They  go  for  none  of  those  things. 
The  sign  on  their  breasts  is  the  cross ;  the  word  on 
their  lips  is  Christ ;  the  thought  in  their  hearts  is  the 
thought  of  all  your  ruthless  race  —  to  take  from 
others  and  add  to  your  own  stores;  to  take  land, 
wealth,  humanity,  life,  everything  that  can  be  taken 
from  conquered  man  before  he  is  left  naked  to  die." 

Gilbert  did  not  smile,  for  he  was  wondering 
whether  there  were  not  some  truth  in  the  monk's 
accusation. 

"  Do  you  say  this  because  Norman  men  hold  half 
of  your  Italy?"  he  asked  gravely.  "Have  they 
held  it  well  or  ill?" 

"Ill,"  answered  Arnold,  fixing  his  eyes  sharply 
on  Gilbert's  face.  "But  that  is  not  the  matter; 
some  of  them  have  helped  me,  too.  There  are  good 
men  and  bad  among  Normans,  as  among  Saracens." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Gilbert,  smiling  now,  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"The  devils  also  believe  and  tremble,"  retorted 
Arnold,  grimly  quoting.  "  The  taking  of  the  South 
proves  my  words ;  it  is  not  half  my  meaning.  Men 
take  the  cross  and  give  their  lives  for  a  name,  a 
tradition,  the  sacred  memories  of  a  holy  place.  They 
will  not  give  a  week  of  their  lives,  a  drop  of  their 
blood,  for  their  fellow-men,  nor  for  the  beliefs  that 
alone  can  save  the  world." 

"  And  what  are  those  beliefs  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 


118  VIA   CEUCIS 

Arnold  paused  before  he  replied,  and  then  as  he 
lifted  his  face,  it  was  full  of  light. 

"Faith,  Hope,  Charity,"  he  answered,  and  then, 
as  his  head  drooped  with  a  sudden  look  of  hopeless 
ness,  he  turned  away  with  slow  steps  toward  the 
great  gate. 

Gilbert  did  not  change  his  position  as  he  looked 
after  him  rather  sadly.  The  man's  perfect  sim 
plicity,  his  eagerness  for  the  most  lofty  ideals,  the 
spotless  purity  of  his  life,  commanded  Gilbert's  most 
true  admiration.  And  yet  to  the  Norman,  Arnold  of 
Brescia  was  but  a  dreamer,  a  visionary,  and  a  mad 
man.  Gilbert  could  listen  to  him  for  a  while,  but 
then  the  terrible  tension  of  the  friar's  thought  and 
speech  wearied  him.  Just  now  he  was  almost  glad 
that  his  companion  should  depart  so  suddenly;  but 
as  he  watched  him  he  saw  him  stop,  as  if  he  had 
forgotten  something,  and  then  turn  back,  searching 
for  some  object  in  the  bosom  of  his  frock. 

"I  had  forgotten  what  brought  me  here,"  said  the 
friar,  producing  a  small  roll  of  parchment  tied  and 
bound  together  with  thin  leathern  laces,  and  tied 
again  with  a  string  of  scarlet  silk  to  which  was 
fastened  a  heavy  leaden  seal.  "  I  have  here  a  letter 
for  you. " 

"A  letter! "  Gilbert  showed  a  not  unnatural  sur 
prise.  He  had  never  received  a  letter  in  his  life,  and 
in  those  days  persons  of  ordinary  importance  rarely 
sent  or  received  messages  except  by  word  of  mouth. 

"  I  went  to  your  lodging,"  replied  the  monk,  hand 
ing  Gilbert  the  parchment.  "  I  guessed  that  I  might 
find  you  here,  where  we  have  met  before." 


VIA   CRUCIS  119 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Gilbert,  turning  the  roll  over 
in  his  hands  as  if  hardly  knowing  what  to  do.  "  How 
came  you  by  this  ?  " 

"  Last  night  there  arrived  messengers  from  France," 
answered  Arnold,  "bringing  letters  for  the  Senate 
and  for  me,  and  with  them  was  this,  which  the 
messenger  said  had  been  delivered  into  his  hand  by 
the  Queen  of  France,  who  had  commanded  him  to 
find  out  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  and 
had  promised  him  a  reward  if  he  should  succeed.  I 
therefore  told  him  that  I  would  give  it  to  you." 

Gilbert  was  looking  at  the  seal.  The  heavy  disk 
of  lead  through  which  the  silken  strings  had  been 
drawn  was  as  large  as  the  bottom  of  a  drinking-cup 
and  was  stamped  with  the  device  of  Aquitaine; 
doubtless  the  very  one  used  by  Duke  William,  for 
it  bore  the  figures  of  Saint  George  and  the  Dragon, 
which  Eleanor  was  afterwards  to  hand  down  to 
English  kings  to  this  day.  Gilbert  tried  to  pull 
the  silk  cord  through  the  lead,  but  the  blow  that  had 
struck  the  die  had  crushed  and  jammed  them  firmly. 

"Cut  it, "  suggested  the  friar,  and  his  ascetic  face 
relaxed  in  a  smile. 

Gilbert  drew  his  dagger,  which  was  a  serviceable 
blade,  half  an  ell  long,  and  as  broad  as  a  man's  three 
fingers  under  the  straight  cross-hilt,  and  as  sharp  as  a 
razor  on  both  edges,  for  Dunstan  was  a  master  at 
whetting.  Gilbert  cut  the  string  and  then  the  laces, 
and  slipped  the  seal  into  his  wallet,  unrolling  the 
stiff  sheet  till  he  found  a  short  writing,  some  six  of 
eight  lines,  not  covering  half  the  page,  and  signed, 
'Eleanora  R.' 


120  VIA   CEUCIS 

But  when  he  had  opened  the  letter  he  saw  that  it 
was  not  to  be  read  easily.  Nevertheless,  his  eye 
lighted  almost  at  once  upon  the  name  which  of  all 
others  he  should  not  have  expected  to  find  there, 
*  Beatrix. '  There  was  no  mistaking  the  letters,  and 
presently  he  found  them  once  again,  and  soon  after 
that  the  sense  was  clear  to  him. 

'If  this  reach  you,'  it  said,  in  moderately  fair 
Latin,  'greeting.  I  will  that  you  make  haste  and 
come  again  to  our  castle  in  Paris,  both  because  you 
shall  at  all  times  be  welcome,  and  more  especially 
now,  and  quickly,  because  the  noble  maiden  Beatrix 
de  Curboil  is  now  at  this  court  among  my  ladies,  and 
is  in  great  hope  of  seeing  you,  since  she  has  left  her 
father  to  be  under  my  protection.  Moreover,  Ber 
nard,  the  abbot,  is  preaching  the  Cross  in  Chartres 
and  other  places,  and  is  coming  here  before  long, 
and  to  Ve*zelay.  Beatrix  greets  you. ' 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  the  messenger 
who  brought  you  this  ?  "  asked  Gilbert,  looking  up 
when  he  had  at  last  deciphered  every  word. 

But  Arnold  was  gone.  The  idea  that  an  acquaint 
ance  whom  he  had  been  endeavouring  to  convert  to 
republican  doctrines  should  be  in  correspondence 
with  one  of  those  sovereigns  against  whom  he  so 
bitterly  inveighed  had  finally  disgusted  him,  and  he 
had  gone  his  way,  if  not  in  wrath,  at  least  in  dis 
pleasure.  Seeing  himself  alone,  Gilbert  shrugged  his 
shoulders  indifferently,  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down,  reading  the  letter  over  and  over.  It  was  very 
short,  but  yet  it  contained  so  much  information  that 
he  found  some  difficulty  in  adjusting  his  thoughts  to 


VIA   CEUCIS  121 

what  was  an  entirely  new  situation,  and  one  which 
no  amount  of  thinking  could  fully  explain.  He  was 
far  too  simple  to  suppose  that  Eleanor  had  called 
Beatrix  to  her  court  solely  for  the  sake  of  bringing 
him  back  to  Paris.  He  therefore  imagined  the  most 
complicated  and  absurd  reasons  for  Queen  Eleanor's 
letter. 

He  told  himself  that  he  must  have  been  mistaken 
from  beginning  to  end ;  that  the  Queen  had  never  felt 
anything  except  friendship  for  him,  but  a  friendship 
far  deeper  and  more  sincere  than  he  had  realized; 
and  he  was  suddenly  immensely  grateful  to  her  for 
her  wish  to  build  up  happiness  in  his  life.  But 
then,  again,  she  knew  as  well  as  he  —  or  as  well  as 
he  thought  he  knew  —  that  the  Church  would  not 
easily  consent  to  his  union  with  Beatrix,  and  as  he 
closed  his  eyes  and  recalled  scenes  of  which  the 
memories  were  still  vivid  and  clear,  the  shadow  that 
had  chilled  his  heart  in  Paris  rose  again  between 
him  and  Eleanor's  face,  and  he  distrusted  her,  and 
her  kiss  and  her  letter,  and  her  motives.  Then,  too, 
it  seemed  very  strange  to  him  that  Beatrix  should 
have  left  her  father's  house;  for  Arnold  de  Curboil 
had  always  loved  her,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  Gil 
bert  that  his  own  mother  had  made  the  girl's  life 
intolerable.  He  was  to  learn  that  later,  and  when 
he  knew  it,  he  tasted  the  last  and  bitterest  dregs  of 
all.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  reasonably  doubt 
the  Queen's  word;  he  was  positively  certain  that 
he  should  find  Beatrix  at  the  French  court,  and  from 
the  first  he  had  not  really  hesitated  about  leav 
ing  at  once.  It  seemed  to  be  the  only  possible 


322  VIA   CRUCIS 

course,  though  it  was  diametrically  opposed  to  all 
the  good  resolutions  which  had  of  late  flitted 
through  his  dreams  like  summer  moths. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  early  in  the  spring 
morning,  Gilbert  and  his  men  rode  slowly  down  the 
desolate  Via  Lata,  and  under  Aurelian's  arch, 
past  the  gloomy  tomb  of  Augustus  on  the  left,  held 
by  the  Count  of  Tusculum,  and  out  at  last  upon  the 
rolling  Campagna,  northward,  by  the  old  Flaminian 
Way. 


CHAPTER  X 

JUNE  was  upon  Italy,  as  a  gossamer  veil  and  a 
garland  on  the  brow  of  a  girl  bride.  The  first  sweet 
hay  was  drying  in  Tuscan  valleys;  the  fig  leaves 
were  spreading,  and  shadowing  the  watery  fruit 
that  begins  to  grow  upon  the  crooked  twigs  before 
the  leaves  themselves,  and  which  the  people  call 
"fig-blossoms,"  because  the  real  figs  come  later;  the 
fresh  and  silvery  olive  shoots  had  shed  a  snow-flurry 
of  small  white  stars;  the  yellow  holy  thorn  still 
blossomed  in  the  rough  places  of  the  hills,  and  the 
blending  of  many  wild  flowers  was  like  a  maiden 
blush  on  the  earth's  soft  bosom. 

At  early  morning  Gilbert  rode  along  the  crest  of  a 
low  and  grassy  hill  that  was  still  sheltered  from  the 
sun  by  the  high  mountains  to  eastward,  and  he  drank 
in  the  cool  and  scented  air  as  if  it  had  been  water 
of  paradise,  and  he  a  man  saved  out  of  death  to  life 
by  the  draught.  There  was  much  peace  in  his  heart, 
and  a  still  security  that  he  had  not  felt  yet  since  he 
had  seen  his  father  lying  dead  before  him.  He  knew 
not  how  it  was,  but  he  was  suddenly  sure  that  Beatrix 
loved  him  and  had  escaped  to  the  court  of  France  in 
the  hope  of  finding  him,  and  was  waiting  for  him 
day  by  day.  And  he  was  also  sure  that  the  Church 
would  not  cut  him  off  from  her  in  the  end,  let  the 

123 


124  VIA  CKUCIS 

churchmen  say  what  they  would.  Was  not  the  Queen 
of  France  his  friend?  She  would  plead  his  case,  and 
the  Pope  would  understand  and  take  away  the  bar. 
He  thought  of  these  things,  and  he  felt  his  hopes 
rising  bright,  like  the  steady  sun. 

He  reached  the  end  of  the  crest  and  drew  rein 
before  descending,  and  he  looked  down  into  the 
broad  valley  and  the  river  winding  in  and  out  among 
trees,  gleaming  like  silver  out  there  in  the  sun 
beyond  the  narrowing  shadow,  then  dark  blue,  and 
then,  in  places,  as  black  as  ink.  The  white  road, 
broad  and  dusty,  winding  on  to  Florence,  followed 
the  changing  river.  Gilbert  took  his  cap  from  his 
head  and  felt  the  coolness  of  the  morning  on  his  fore 
head  and  the  gentle  breath  of  the  early  summer  in 
his  fair  hair ;  and  then,  sitting  there  in  the  deep 
silence,  bareheaded,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in 
the  very  holy  place  of  God's  cathedral. 

"  The  peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all  understand 
ing,"  he  repeated  softly  and  almost  involuntarily. 

"Now  the  God  of  peace  be  with  you  all,  amen," 
answered  Dunstan. 

But  there  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  that  made  Gil 
bert  look  at  him,  and  he  saw  in  the  man's  face  a 
quiet  smile,  as  if  something  amused  him,  while  the 
black  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  sight  far  away.  Dunstan 
was  pointing  to  what  he  saw ;  so  Gilbert  looked,  too, 
and  he  perceived  a  gleaming,  very  far  off,  that  moved 
slowly  on  the  white  road  beside  the  shining  river. 

"They  are  expecting  a  fight  to-day,"  said  Gilbert, 
"  for  they  are  in  mail  and  their  mule-train  is  behind 
them." 


VIA   CKTJCIS  125 

"  Shall  we  turn  aside  and  ride  up  the  mountain,  to 
let  them  pass  ?  "  asked  Dunstan,  who  could  fight  like 
a  wildcat,  but  had  also  the  cat's  instinctive  caution. 

"It  would  be  a  pity  not  to  see  the  fight,"  answered 
Gilbert,  and  he  began  to  ride  forward  down  the 
descent. 

The  track  was  worn  down  to  the  depth  of  a  man's 
height  by  the  hoofs  of  the  beasts  that  had  trodden  it 
for  ages ;  and  in  places  it  was  very  narrow,  so  that 
two  laden  mules  could  hardly  pass  each  other. 
Young  chestnut  shoots  of  three  or  four  years'  growth 
sprang  up  in  thick  green  masses  from  the  top  of  the 
bank  on  each  side,  and  now  and  then  the  branches  of 
nut  trees  almost  joined  their  broad  leaves  across  the 
way,  making  a  deep  shade  that  was  cool  and  smelt 
of  fresh  mould  and  green  things.  A  little  way  down 
the  hill  a  spring  of  water  trickled  into  a  little  pool 
hollowed  out  by  travellers,  and  the  water  overflowed 
and  made  thick  black  mud  of  the  earth  churned  up 
with  last  year's  dead  leaves. 

Gilbert  let  his  horse  stop  to  drink,  and  his  men 
waited  in  single  file  to  take  their  turn. 

"Psst!"  The  peculiar  hiss  which  Italians  make 
to  attract  attention  came  sharp  and  distinct  from 
the  low  growth  of  the  chestnut  shoots. 

Gilbert  turned  his  head  quickly  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound.  A  swarthy  face  appeared,  framed  in  a 
close  leathern  cap  on  which  small  rings  of  rusty  iron 
were  sewn  strongly,  but  not  very  regularly.  Then 
a  long  left  arm,  clad  in  the  same  sort  of  mail,  pushed 
the  lower  boughs  aside  and  made  a  gesture  in  the 
direction  whence  Gilbert  had  come,  which  was  meant 


126  VIA   CRUCIS 

to  warn  him  back  —  a  gesture  of  the  flat  hand,  held 
across  the  breast  with  thumb  hidden,  just  moving  a 
little  up  and  down. 

"Why  should  I  go  back?"  asked  Gilbert,  in  his 
natural  voice. 

"Because  yes,"  answered  the  dark  man,  in  the 
common  Italian  idiom,  and  in  a  low  tone.  "  Because 
we  are  waiting  for  the  Florentines,  certain  of  us  of 
Pistoja,  and  we  want  no  travellers  in  the  way.  And 
then  —  because,  if  you  will  not  —  " 

The  right  arm  suddenly  appeared,  and  in  the  hand 
was  a  spear,  and  the  act  was  a  threat  to  run  Gilbert 
through,  unmailed  as  he  was,  and  just  below  his  adver 
sary.  But  as  Gilbert  laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 
looking  straight  at  the  man's  eye,  he  very  suddenly 
saw  a  strange  sight ;  for  there  was  a  long  arrow  stick 
ing  through  the  head,  the  point  out  on  one  side  and  the 
feather  on  the  other ;  and  for  a  moment  the  man  still 
looked  at  him  with  eyes  wide  open.  Then,  standing 
as  he  was,  his  body  slowly  bent  forward  upon  itself 
as  if  curling  up,  and  with  a  crash  of  steel  it  rolled 
down  the  bank  into  the  pool  of  water,  where  the 
lance  snapped  under  it. 

For  little  Alric,  the  Saxon  groom,  had  quietly 
slipped  to  the  ground  and  had  strung  his  bow,  sus 
pecting  trouble,  and  had  laid  an  arrow  to  the  string, 
waiting;  and  little  Alric's  aim  was  very  sure;  it 
was  also  the  first  time  that  he  had  shot  a  man, 
and  he  came  of  men  who  had  been  bowmen  since 
Alfred's  day,  and  before  that,  and  had  killed  many, 
for  generations,  so  that  it  was  an  instinct  with  them 
to  slay  with  the  bow. 


VIA   CRUCIS  127 

"Well  done,  boy!"  cried  Gilbert. 

But  his  horse  reared  back,  as  the  dead  body  fell 
splashing  into  the  pool,  and  Alric  quietly  unstrung 
his  bow  again  and  remounted  to  be  ready.  Then 
Gilbert  would  have  ridden  on,  but  Dunstan  hindered 
him. 

"This  fellow  was  but  a  sentinel,"  he  said.  "A 
little  further  on  you  will  find  these  woods  filled 
with  armed  men  waiting  to  surprise  the  riders  we 
saw  from  above.  Surely,  I  will  die  with  you,  sir; 
but  we  need  not  die  like  rats  in  a  corn-bin.  Let  us 
ride  up  a  little  way  again,  and  then  skirt  the  woods 
and  take  the  road  where  it  joins  the  river,  down  in 
the  valley." 

"  And  warn  those  men  of  Florence  that  they  are 
riding  into  an  ambush,"  added  Gilbert,  turning  his 
horse. 

So  they  rode  up  the  hill ;  and  scarcely  were  they 
out  of  sight  of  the  spring  when  a  very  old  woman 
and  a  ragged  little  boy  crept  out  of  the  bushes,  with 
knives,  and  began  to  rob  the  dead  man  of  his  rusty 
mail  and  his  poor  clothes. 

Gilbert  reached  the  road  a  long  stone 's-throw 
beyond  the  last  chestnut  shoots,  and  galloped  for 
ward  to  meet  the  advancing  knights  and  men-at-arms. 
He  drew  rein  suddenly,  a  dozen  lengths  before  them, 
and  threw  up  his  open  right  hand.  They  were  riding 
leisurely,  but  all  in  mail,  some  having  surcoats  with 
devices  embroidered  thereon,  and  most  of  them  with 
their  heads  uncovered,  their  steel  caps  and  hoods  of 
mail  hanging  at  their  saddle-bows. 

"Sirs,"  cried  Gilbert,  in  a  loud,  clear  voice,  "you 


128  VIA   CRUCIS 

ride  to  an  ambush!  The  chestnut  woods  are  full  of 
the  men  of  Pistoja." 

A  knight  who  rode  in  front,  and  was  the  leader, 
came  close  to  Gilbert.  He  was  a  man  not  young, 
with  a  dark,  smooth  face,  as  finely  cut  as  a  relief 
carved  upon  a  shell,  and  his  hair  was  short  and  iron- 
grey. 

Gilbert  told  him  what  had  happened  in  the  woods, 
and  the  elderly  knight  listened  quietly  and  thought 
fully,  while  examining  Gilbert's  face  with  half- 
unconscious  keenness. 

"If  you  please,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  will 
lead  you  by  the  way  I  have  ridden,  and  you  may 
enter  the  bushes  from  above,  and  fight  at  better 
advantage." 

But  the  Florentine  smiled  at  such  simple  tactics. 
To  feel  the  breeze,  he  held  up  his  right  hand,  which 
issued  from  a  slit  in  the  wrist  of  his  mail,  so  that 
the  iron  mitten  hung  loose ;  and  the  wind  was  blow 
ing  toward  the  woods.  He  called  to  his  squire. 

"Take  ten  men,  light  torches,  and  set  fire  to 
those  young  trees." 

The  men  got  a  cook's  earthenware  pot  of  coals, 
fed  all  day  long  with  charcoal  on  the  march,  lest 
there  should  be  no  fire  for  the  camp  at  night;  and 
they  lit  torches  of  pitched  hemp-rope,  and  presently 
there  was  a  great  smoke  and  a  crackling  of  green 
branches.  But  the  leader  of  the  Florentines  put  on 
his  steel  cap  and  drew  the  mail  hood  down  over  his 
shoulders,  while  all  the  others  who  were  bareheaded 
did  the  same. 

"Sir,"  said  the  knight  to  Gilbert,  "you  should 


VIA   CRUCIS  129 

withdraw  behind  us,  now  that  you  have  done  us  this 
great  service.  For  presently  there  will  be  fighting 
here,  and  you  are  unmailed." 

"  The  weather  is  overwarm  for  an  iron  coat, "  an- 
swered  Gilbert,  with  a  laugh.  "But  if  I  shall  not 
trespass  upon  the  courtesies  of  your  country  by  thrust 
ing  my  company  upon  you,  I  will  ride  at  your  left 
hand,  that  you  may  the  more  safely  slay  with  your 
right." 

"Sir,"  answered  the  other,  "you  are  a  very  cour 
teous  man.  Of  what  country  may  you  be  ?  " 

"  An  Englishman,  sir,  and  of  Norman  blood. "  He 
also  told  his  name. 

"Gino  Buondelmonte,  at  your  service,"  replied 
the  knight,  naming  himself. 

"Nay,  sir,"  laughed  Gilbert,  "a  knight  cannot 
serve  a  simple  squire !  " 

"  It  is  never  shame  for  gentle-born  to  serve  gentle- 
born,"  answered  the  other. 

But  now  the  smoke  was  driving  the  men  of  Pistoja 
out  of  the  wood,  and  the  hillside  down  which  Gilbert 
had  ridden  was  covered  with  men  in  mail,  on  horse 
back,  and  with  footmen  in  leather  and  such  poor 
armour  as  had  been  worn  by  the  dead  sentinel. 
Buondelmonte  thrust  his  feet  home  in  his  wide  stir 
rups,  settled  himself  in  the  saddle,  shortened  his 
reins,  and  drew  his  sword,  while  watching  all  the 
time  the  movements  of  the  enemy.  Gilbert  sat 
quietl}7  watching  them,  too.  As  yet  he  had  never 
ridden  at  a  foe,  though  he  had  fought  on  foot,  and 
he  unconsciously  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  pros 
pect,  trying  to  pick  out  the  man  likely  to  fall  by 


130  VIA   CRUCIS 

his  sword.  In  England,  or  in  France,  he  would 
certainly  have  put  on  the  good  mail  which  wa& 
packed  on  the  sumpter  mule's  back;  but  here  in 
the  sweet  Italian  spring,  in  the  morning  breeze  full 
of  the  scent  of  wild  flowers,  and  the  humming  of 
bees  and  the  twittering  of  little  birds,  even  fighting 
had  a  look  of  harmless  play,  and  he  felt  as  secure  in 
his  cloth  tunic  as  if  it  had  been  of  woven  steel. 

The  position  of  the  Florentines  was  the  better,  for 
they  had  the  broad  homeward  road  behind  them,  in 
case  of  defeat;  but  the  men  of  Pistoja,  driven  from 
the  woods  by  the  thick  smoke  and  the  burning  of  the 
undergrowth,  were  obliged  to  scramble  down  a  de 
scent  so  steep  that  many  of  them  were  forced  to  dis 
mount,  and  they  then  found  themselves  huddled 
together  in  a  narrow  strip  of  irregular  meadow 
between  the  road  and  the  foot  of  the  stony  hill. 
Buondelmonte  saw  his  advantage.  His  sword  shot 
up  at  arm's  length  over  his  head,  and  his  high,  clear 
voice  rang  out  in  a  single  word  of  command. 

In  a  moment  the  peace  of  nature  was  rent  by  the 
scream  of  war.  Hoofs  thundered,  swords  flashed, 
men  yelled,  and  arrows  shot  through  the  great  cloud 
of  dust  that  rose  suddenly  as  from  an  explosion.  In 
the  front  of  the  charge  the  Italian  and  the  Norman 
rode  side  by  side,  the  inscrutable  black  eyes  and  the 
calm  olive  features  beside  the  Norman's  terrible 
young  figure,  with  its  white  glowing  face  and  fair 
hair  streaming  on  the  wind,  and  wide,  deep  eyes  like 
blue  steel,  and  the  quivering  nostrils  of  the  man 
born  for  fight. 

Short  was  the  strife  and  sharp,  as  the  Florentines 


VIA  CRUCIS  131 

spread  to  right  and  left  of  their  leader  and  pressed 
the  foe  back  against  the  steep  hill  in  the  narrow 
meadow.  Then  Buondelmonte  thrust  out  straight 
and  sure,  in  the  Italian  fashion,  and  once  the  mortal 
wound  was  in  the  face,  and  once  in  the  throat,  and 
many  times  men  felt  it  in  their  breasts  through 
mail  and  gambison  and  bone.  But  Gilbert's  great 
strokes  flashed  like  lightnings  from  his  pliant  wrist, 
and  behind  the  wrist  was  the  Norman  arm,  and 
behind  the  arm  the  relentless  pale  face  and  the  even 
lips,  that  just  tightened  upon  each  other  as  the  death 
blows  went  out,  one  by  one,  each  to  its  place  in  a  life. 
The  Italian  destroyed  men  skilfully  and  quickly, 
yet  as  if  it  were  distasteful  to  him.  The  Norman 
slew  like  a  bright  destroying  angel,  breathing  the 
swift  and  silent  wrath  of  God  upon  mankind. 

Blow  upon  blow,  with  clash  of  steel,  thrust  after 
thrust  as  the  darting  of  serpents,  till  the  dead  lay  in 
heaps,  and  the  horses'  hoofs  churned  blood  and  grass 
to  a  green-red  foam,  till  the  sword-arm  waited  high 
and  then  sank  slowly,  because  there  was  none  for  the 
sword  to  strike,  and  the  point  rested  among  the  close- 
sewn  rings  of  mail  on  Buondelmonte's  foot,  and  the 
thin  streams  of  blood  trickled  quietly  down  the 
dimmed  blade. 

"  Sir,"  said  Buondelmonte,  courteously,  "  you  are 
a  marvellous  fine  swordsman,  though  you  fence  not 
in  our  manner,  with  the  point.  I  am  your  debtor 
for  the  safety  of  my  left  side.  Are  you  hurt,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  I !  "  laughed  Gilbert,  wiping  his  broad  blade 
slowly  on  his  horse's  mane  for  lack  of  anything 
better. 


132  VIA   CRUCIS 

Then  Buondelmonte  looked  at  him  again  and 
smiled. 

"  You  have  won  yourself  a  fair  crest,"  he  laughed, 
as  he  glanced  at  Gilbert's  cap. 

"  A  crest  ?  "  Gilbert  put  up  his  hand,  and  uttered 
an  exclamation  as  it  struck  against  a  sharp  steel  point. 

A  half-spent  arrow  had  pierced  the  top  of  his 
red  cloth  cap  and  was  sticking  there,  like  a  woman's 
long  hairpin.  He  thought  that  if  it  had  struck 
two  inches  lower,  with  a  little  more  force,  he  should 
have  looked  as  the  man  in  the  woods  did,  whom 
Alric  had  killed.  He  plucked  the  shaft  from  the 
stiff  cloth  with  some  difficulty,  and,  barely  glancing 
at  it,  tossed  it  away.  But  little  Alric,  who  had 
left  the  guide  to  take  care  of  the  mules  and  had  fol 
lowed  the  charge  on  foot,  picked  up  the  arrow, 
marked  it  with  his  knife  and  put  it  carefully  into 
his  leathern  quiver,  which  he  filled  with  arrows  he 
picked  up  on  the  grass  till  it  would  hold  no  more. 
Duristan,  who  had  ridden  in  the  press  with  the 
rest,  was  looking  among  the  dead  for  a  good  sword 
to  take,  his  own  being  broken. 

"Florence  owes  you  a  debt,  sir,"  said  Buondel 
monte,  an  hour  later,  when  they  were  riding  back 
from  the  pursuit.  "  But  for  your  warning,  many  of 
us  would  be  lying  dead  in  that  wood.  I  pray  you, 
take  from  the  spoil,  such  as  it  is,  whatsoever  you 
desire.  And  if  it  please  you  to  stay  with  us,  the 
archbishop  shall  make  a  knight  of  you,  for  you  have 
won  knighthood  to-day." 

But  Gilbert  shook  his  head,  smiling  gravely. 

"Praised  be  God,   I  need  nothing,  sir,"  he  an- 


VIA   CETJCIS  13S 

/ 

swered.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  courteous  hospitality, 
but  I  cannot  stay,  seeing  that  I  ride  upon  a  lady's 
bidding.  And  as  for  a  debt,  sir,  Florence  has  paid 
hers  largely  in  giving  me  your  acquaintance." 

"My  friendship,  sir,"  replied  Buondelmonte,  not 
yielding  in  compliment  to  the  knightly  youth. 

So  they  broke  bread  together  and  drank  a  draught, 
and  parted.  But  Buondelmonte  gave  Dunstan  a 
small  purse  of  gold  and  a  handful  of  silver  to  little 
Alric  and  the  muleteer,  and  Gilbert  rode  away  with 
his  men,  and  all  were  well  pleased. 

Yet  when  he  was  alone  in  the  evening,  a  sadness 
and  a  horror  of  what  he  had  done  came  over  him;  for 
he  had  taken  life  that  day  as  a  man  mows  down  grass, 
in  swaths,  and  he  could  not  tell  why  he  had  slain, 
for  he  knew  not  the  men  who  fought  on  the  two  sides, 
nor  their  difference.  He  had  charged  because  he  saw 
men  charging,  he  had  struck  for  the  love  of  strife,  and 
had  killed  because  it  was  of  his  nature  to  kill.  But 
now  that  the  blood  was  shed,  and  the  sun  which  had 
risen  on  life  was  going  down  on  death,  Gilbert 
Warde  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done,  and  his  brave 
charge  seemed  but  a  senseless  deed  of  slaughter,  for 
which  he  should  rather  have  done  penance  than 
received  knighthood. 

"I  am  no  better  than  a  wild  beast,"  he  said, 
when  he  had  told  Dunstan  what  he  felt.  "  Go  and 
find  out  a  priest  to  pray  for  those  I  have  killed 
to-day." 

He  covered  his  brow  with  his  hand  as  he  sat  at 
the  supper  table. 

" I  go, "  answered  the  young  man.     "Yet  it  is  a 


134  VIA  CKUCIS 

pleasant  sight  to  see  the  lion  weeping  for  pity  over 
the  calf  he  has  killed." 

"The  lion  kills  that  he  may  eat  and  himself  live," 
answered  Gilbert.  "  And  the  men  who  fought  to-day 
fought  for  a  cause.  But  I  smote  for  the  wanton  love 
of  smiting  that  is  in  all  our  blood,  and  I  am  ashamed. 
Bid  the  priest  pray  for  me  also." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  court  of  France  was  at  Ve'zelay — the  King,  the 
Queen,  the  great  vassals  of  the  kingdom  at  the  King's 
command,  and  those  of  Aquitaine  and  Guienne 
and  Poitou  in  the  train  of  Eleanor,  whose  state  out 
shone  and  dwarfed  her  husband's.  And  there  was 
Bernard,  the  holy  man  of  Clairvaux,  to  preach  the 
Cross,  where  old  men  remembered  the  voice  of 
Peter  the  Hermit  and  the  shout  of  men  now  long 
dead  in  far  Palestine,  crying,  "God's  will!  God's 
will!" 

Because  the  church  of  Saint  Mary  Magdalen  was 
too  small  to  hold  the  multitude,  they  were  gathered 
together  in  a  wide  grassy  hollow  without  the  little 
town,  and  there  a  raised  floor  of  wood  had  been  built 
for  the  King  and  Queen  and  the  great  nobles ;  but 
the  rest  of  the  knights  and  Eleanor's  three  hundred 
ladies  stood  upon  the  grass-grown  slope,  and  were 
crowded  together  by  the  vast  concourse  of  the  people. 

The  sun  was  already  behind  the  hill,  and  the  hot 
July  air  had  cooled  a  little ;  but  it  was  still  hot,  and 
the  breathing  of  the  multitude  could  be  heard  in  the 
silence.  Gilbert  had  come  but  just  in  time ;  he  had 
left  his  men  to  find  him  a  lodging  if  they  could, 
and  now  he  pressed  forward  as  well  as  he  might, 
to  see  and  hear,  but  most  of  all  to  find  out,  if 

135 


136  VIA   CBUCIS 

he  could,  the  face  of  Beatrix  among  the  three 
hundred. 

There  sat  the  Queen,  in  scarlet  and  gold,  wearing 
the  crown  upon  her  russet  hair,  and  the  King  in  gold 
and  blue  beside  her,  square,  grave,  and  pale  as  ever; 
and  when  Gilbert  had  searched  the  three  hundred  fair 
young  faces  in  vain,  his  eyes  came  back  to  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world.  He  saw  that  she  was 
fairer  than  even  his  memory  of  her,  and  he  felt  pride 
that  she  should  call  herself  his  friend. 

Then  suddenly  there  was  a  stir  among  the  knights 
behind  the  throne,  and  though  they  were  standing 
closely,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  pressed  one  against 
another,  yet  they  divided  to  let  the  preacher  go 
through.  He  came  alone,  with  quiet  eyes,  thanking 
the  knights  to  right  and  left  because  they  made  way 
for  him,  and  he  passed  between  them  quickly  like  a 
white  shadow.  So  thought  pierces  matter  and  the 
spiritual  being  penetrates  the  terrestrial  being  and 
is  unchanged. 

But  when  Bernard  had  ascended  the  white  wooden 
stage  and  stood  near  the  King  and  Queen,  then  the 
hushed  stillness  became  a  dead  silence,  and  the  eyes 
of  all  that  multitude  were  fastened  upon  his  face  and 
form,  as  each  could  see  him.  For  a  moment  every 
man  held  his  breath  as  if  an  angel  had  come  down 
from  heaven,  bringing  on  his  lips  the  word  of  God 
and  in  his  look  the  evidence  of  eternal  light.  He  was 
the  holy  man  of  the  world  even  while  he  lived,  and 
neither  before  him  nor  after  him,  since  the  days  of 
the  Apostles,  has  any  one  person  so  stood  in  the  eyes 
of  all  mankind. 


VIA   CRUCIS  137 

The  gentle  voice  began  to  speak,  without  effort 
to  be  heard,  yet  as  distinct  and  clear  as  if  it  spoke 
to  each  several  ear,  pleading  for  the  cause  of  the 
Cross  of  Christ,  and  for  the  suffering  men  who 
held  the  holy  places  in  the  East  with  ever-weaken 
ing  hands,  but  still  with  undaunted,  desperate 
courage. 

"  Is  there  any  man  among  you  who  has  loved  his 
mother,  and  has  received  her  dying  breath  with  her 
last  blessing,  and  has  laid  her  to  rest  in  peace,  in  a 
place  holy  to  him  for  her  sake,  and  who  would 
suffer  that  her  grave  should  be  defiled  and  defaced 
by  her  enemies,  so  long  as  he,  her  son,  has  in  his  body 
blood  of  hers  to  shed  ?  Is  there  any  among  you  who 
would  not  fight,  while  he  had  breath,  to  save  his 
father's  dead  bones  from  dishonour?  Do  you  not 
daily  boast  that  you  will  lay  down  your  lives  in  a 
quarrel  for  the  .good  name  of  your  ladies,  as  you 
would  for  your  own  daughters'  fair  fame  and  your 
own  wives'  faithfulness? 

"  And  now,  I  say,  is  not  the  Church  of  God  your 
mother,  and  are  not  her  temples  your  most  holy 
places  ?  You  boast  that  you  are  ready  to  die  for  an 
honourable  cause:  yet  Christ  gave  His  life  for  us, 
not  because  of  our  honour,  but  because  of  our  dis 
honour,  and  our  sins  which  are  many  and  grievous ; 
and  having  atoned  for  us  in  His  Holy  Passion,  He  was 
laid  at  rest  after  the  manner  of  men.  And  the  place 
where  He  rested  is  sacred,  for  the  Lord  £  om  Heaven 
lay  therein  when  He  had  washed  awa^  our  iniquity 
with  His  holy  blood,  when  He  had  healed  us  by  His 
stripes,  when  He  had  given  His  life  that  we  might 


138  VIA.   CRTJCIS 

live,  when  He  had  endured  the  bondage  of  this  dying 
flesh  that  we  might  be  raised  undying  in  the  spirit, 
by  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  in  Him. 

"  Shall  the  earth  that  drank  that  blood  be  as  other 
earth?  Shall  the  place  that  echoed  the  seven  words 
of  agony  be  as  other  places?  Is  the  tomb  where  God 
rested  Him  of  His  crucified  manhood  to  be  given  up 
to  forgetfulness  and  defilement?  Or  are  we  sinless, 
that  we  need  not  even  the  memory  of  the  sacrifice, 
and  so  pure  that  we  need  no  purification?  I 
would  that  we  were.  The  world  is  evil,  the  hour 
is  late,  the  Judge  is  at  hand,  and  we  are  lacking 
of  good  and  eaten  of  evil,  so  that  there  is  no  whole 
part  in  us. 

"  And  yet  we  move  not  to  save  ourselves,  though 
Christ  gave  His  life  to  save  us  if  we  would  stir 
ever  so  little,  if  we  would  but  stretch  out  our  hands 
to  the  hand  that  waits  for  ours.  He  bids  us  not  be 
crucified,  as  He  was  for  us.  He  bids  us  only  take  up 
our  cross  and  follow  Him,  as  He  took  it  up  Himself, 
and  bore  it  to  the  place  of  death." 

Thus  Bernard  began  to  speak,  gently  at  first,  as 
one  who  rouses  a  friend  from  sleep  to  warn  him  of 
danger,  and  fears  to  be  rough,  yet  cannot  be  silent; 
but  by  and  by,  in  the  breathing  stillness,  the  sweet 
voice  was  strengtnened  and  rang  like  the  first  clarion 
at  dawn  on  the  day  of  battle,  far  off  and  clear,  heart- 
stirring  and  true.  And  with  the  rising  tone  came 
also  the  stronger  word,  and  at  last  the  spirit  that 
moves  more  t-ian  word  or  voice. 

"  Lay  the  Cross  to  your  hearts  as  you  wear  it  on 
your  breasts.  Bear  it  with  you  on  the  long  day 


VIA   CRTJCIS  139 

marches,  and  in  the  watches  of  night  bow  before  it 
inwardly,  and  pray  that  you  may  have  grace  to  bear 
it  to  the  end.  So  shall  your  footsteps  profit  you, 
and  your  way  shall  be  the  way  of  the  Cross,  till  you 
stand  in  the  holy  place.  But  if  so  be  that  God 
ask  blood  of  you,  blessed  shall  they  be  among  you 
who  shall  give  life  freely,  to  die  for  the  Cross 
of  our  Lord  Christ;  and  they  shall  stand  in  the 
place  that  is  holy  indeed,  before  the  Throne  of 
God. 

"Yet  beware  of  one  thing.  I  would  not  that  you 
should  go  out  to  fight  for  the  Sepulchre  as  some  of 
our  fathers  did,  boasting  in  the  Cross,  yet  in  heart 
each  for  his  own  soul  and  none  for  the  glory  of 
Christ,  counting  the  weariness,  and  the  hurts,  and 
the  drops  of  blood  as  a  sure  reckoning  to  be  repaid 
to  you  in  heaven,  as  if  you  had  lent  God  a  piece  of 
money  which  He  must  pay  again.  The  Lord  Jesus 
gave  not  His  life  at  an  account,  nor  His  blood  at 
usury ;  He  counted  not  the  pain,  nor  was  His  suffer 
ing  set  down  in  a  book ;  but  He  gave  all  freely,  of 
His  love  for  men.  Shall  men  therefore  ask  of  God 
a  return,  saying:  'We  have  given  Thee  so  much,  as 
it  were  a  wound,  or  it  may  be  a  life,  or  else  a  prayer, 
and  a  day  of  fasting,  see  that  Thou  pay  us  what  is 
just '  ?  That  were  not  giving  to  God  what  is  a  man's 
own ;  it  were  rather  lending  or  selling  to  God  what 
is  His.  See  that  you  do  not  thus,  but  if  you  have 
anything  to  give,  let  it  be  given  freely;  or  else 
give  not  at  all,  for  it  is  written  that  from  him  that 
hath  not  faith  shall  be  taken  even  such  things  as 
he  hath. 


140  VIA  CRUCIS 

"But  if  you  take  the  Cross,  and  arm  yourselves 
to  fight  for  it,  and  go  your  way  to  Palestine  to  help 
your  brethren  in  their  sore  need,  go  not  for  your 
selves,  suffer  not  for  yourselves,  fight  not  for  your 
selves.  For  as  God  is  greater  than  man,  so  is  the 
glory  of  God  greater  than  the  glory  of  self  and  more 
worthy  that  you  should  die  for  it.  Think  not 
therefore  of  earning  a  reward,  but  of  honouring 
the  Lord  Christ  in  the  holy  place  where  He  died 
for  you. 

"March  not  as  it  were  to  do  penance  for  your 
old  sins,  hoping  for  forgiveness,  as  a  trader  that 
brings  merchandise  looks  for  a  profit!  Strike 
not  as  slaves,  who  fight  lest  they  be  beaten  with 
rods,  neither  as  men  in  fear  of  everlasting  fire 
and  the  torments  of  hell!  Neither  go  out  as 
thieves,  seeking  to  steal  the  earth  for  yourselves, 
and  striving  not  with  the  unbeliever,  but  with 
the  rich  man  for  his  riches,  and  with  the  great 
man  for  his  possessions  I  I  say,  go  forth  and  do 
battle  for  God's  sake  and  His  glory  I  March  ye 
for  Christ  and  to  bring  the  people  to  Him  out  of 
darkness  !  Take  with  you  the  Cross  to  set  it  in  the 
hearts  of  men,  and  the  seed  of  the  tree  of  life  to 
plant  among  desolate  nations! 

"  Ye  kings,  that  are  anointed  leaders,  lead  ye  the 
armies  of  Heaven  !  Ye  knights,  that  are  sworn  to 
honour,  draw  your  unsullied  swords  for  the  honour 
of  God  !  Men  and  youths,  that  bear  arms  by  alle 
giance,  be  ye  soldiers  of  Christ  and  allegiant  to  the 
Cross  !  Be  ye  all  first  for  honour,  first  for  France, 
first  for  God  Most  High  !  " 


VIA   CKUCIS  141 

With  those  words  the  white-sleeved  arm  was  high 
above  his  head,  holding  up  the  plain  white  wooden 
cross,  and  there  was  silence  for  a  moment.  But 
when  the  people  saw  that  he  had  finished  speaking, 
they  drew  deep  breath,  and  the  air  thundered  with 
the  great  cry  that  came. 

"  Crosses !     Give  us  crosses !  " 

And  they  pressed  upon  one  another  to  get  nearer. 
The  King  had  risen,  and  the  Queen  with  him,  and 
he  came  forward  and  knelt  at  Bernard's  feet,  with 
Oent  head  and  folded  hands.  The  great  abbot  took 
pieces  of  scarlet  cloth  from  a  page  who  held  them 
ready  in  a  basket,  and  he  fastened  them  upon  the 
King's  left  shoulder  and  then  raised  his  right 
hand  in  blessing.  The  people  were  silent  again 
and  looked  on,  and  many  thought  that  the  King, 
in  his  great  mantle  and  high  crown,  was  like 
a  bishop  wearing  a  cope,  for  he  had  a  church- 
man's  face.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  stepped  back 
but  he  was  scarcely  risen  when  the  Queen  stood 
in  his  place,  radiant,  the  evening  light  in  her 
hair. 

"I  also  will  go,"  she  said  in  a  clear,  imperious 
voice.  "  Give  me  the  Cross  !  " 

She  knelt  and  placed  her  hands  together,  as  in 
prayer,  and  there  was  a  fair  light  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  up  to  Bernard's  face.  He  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  took  a  cross  and  laid  it  upon  her  mantle,  and 
she  smiled.  , 

A  great  cry  went  up  from  all  the  knights,  and  then 
from  the  people,  strong  and  triumphant,  echoing, 
falling,  and  rising  again. 


142  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  God  save  the  Queen !  —  the  Queen  that  wears 
the  Cross ! " 

And  suddenly  every  man  held  up  his  sword  by  the 
sheath,  and  the  great  cross-hilts  made  forests  of 
crosses  in  the  glowing  air.  But  the  Queen's  three 
hundred  ladies  pressed  upon  her. 

"  We  will  not  leave  you  I  "  they  cried.  "  We  will 
take  the  Cross  with  you !  " 

And  they  thronged  upon  Bernard  like  a  flight 
of  doves,  holding  out  white  hands  for  crosses,  and 
more  crosses,  while  he  gave  as  best  he  could. 
Also  the  people  and  the  knights  began  to  tear 
pieces  from  their  own  garments  to  make  the  sign, 
and  one  great  lord  took  his  white  mantle  and 
made  strips  of  the  fine  cloth  for  his  liege  vassals 
and  his  squires  and  men;  but  another  took  Ber 
nard's  white  cape  from  his  shoulders  and  with  a 
sharp  dagger  made  many  little  crosses  of  it  for 
the  people,  who  kissed  them  as  holy  things  when 
they  received  them. 

In  the  throng,  Gilbert  pressed  forward  to  the  edge 
of  the  platform  where  the  Queen  was  standing,  for 
he  was  strong  and  tall.  He  touched  her  mantle 
softly,  and  she  looked  down,  and  he  saw  how  her  face 
turned  white  and  gentle  when  she  knew  him.  Being 
too  far  below  her  to  take  her  hand,  he  took  the  rich 
border  of  her  cloak  and  kissed  it,  whereat  she  smiled ; 
but  she  made  a  sign  to  him  that  he  should  not  try  to 
talk  with  her  in  the  confusion.  Then  looking  down 
again,  she  saw  that  he  had  yet  no  cross.  She  took 
one  from  one  of  her  ladies,  and,  bending  low,  tried 
to  fasten  it  upon  his  shoulder., 


VIA  CKUCIS  143 

"I  thank  your  Grace,"  said  Gilbert,  very  grate 
fully.  "Is  Beatrix  here?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
tone. 

But,  to  his  wonder,  the  Queen's  brow  darkened, 
and  her  eyes  were  suddenly  hard;  she  almost 
dropped  the  cross  in  her  hurry  to  stand  upright, 
nor  would  she  again  turn  her  eyes  to  look  at 
him. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  the  late  dusk  of  summer  Bernard  went  his  way 
from  the  place  where  he  had  preached,  to  the  presby 
tery  of  Saint  Mary  Magdalen,  where  he  was  to  lodge 
that  night.  The  King  and  Queen  walked  beside 
him,  their  horses  led  after  them  by  grooms  in  the 
royal  liveries  of  white  and  gold;  and  all  the  long 
procession  of  knights  and  nobles,  priests  and  laymen, 
gentlefolk  and  churls,  men,  women,  and  children, 
streamed  in  a  motley  procession  up  the  road  to  the 
village.  As  they  went,  the  King  talked  gravely  with 
the  holy  man,  interlarding  and  lining  his  sententious 
speeches  with  copious  though  not  always  correct 
quotations  from  the  Vulgate.  On  Bernard's  other 
side  Eleanor  walked  with  head  erect,  one  hand  upon 
her  belt,  one  hanging  down,  her  brows  slightly  drawn 
together,  her  face  clear  white,  her  burning  eyes  fixed 
angrily  upon  the  bright  vision  cast  by  her  thoughts 
into  the  empty  air  before  her. 

She  had  used  the  only  means,  and  the  strongest 
means,  of  bringing  Gilbert  back  to  France  ;  she  had 
foredreamt  his  coming,  she  had  foreknown  that 
from  the  first  he  would  ask  for  Beatrix ;  but  she  had 
neither  known  nor  dreamt  of  what  she  should  feel 
when  he,  standing  at  her  feet  below  the  platform, 
looked  up  to  her  offering  eyes  with  a  hunger  in  his 
face  which  she  could  not  satisfy,  and  a  desire  which 

144 


VIA   CRUCIS  145 

she  could  not  fulfil.  His  very  asking  for  the  other 
had  been  a  refusal  of  herself,  and  to  be  refused  is  a 
shame  which  no  loving  woman  will  accept  while  love 
is  living,  and  an  insult  which  no  strong  woman  for 
gives  when  k>ve  is  dead. 

But  neither  the  King  nor  the  abbot  heeded  her  as 
they  walked  along,  talking  in  Latin  mixed  with  Nor 
man  French.  The  monk,  not  tall,  slender,  spiritualized 
even  in  the  remnant  of  his  flesh,  the  incarnation  of 
believing  thought  and  word,  the  exposition  of  mat 
ter's  servitude  to  mind,  was  the  master ;  the  King, 
heavy,  strong,  pale,  obedient,  was  the  pupil,  proving 
the  existence  of  the  greater  force  by  his  blind  sub 
mission  to  its  laws.  Beside  them  the  Queen  imaged  the 
independence  of  youthful  life,  believing  without  realiz 
ing,  strong  with  blood,  rich  with  colour,  fearing  regret 
more  than  remorse,  thoughtlessly  cruel  and  cruelly 
thoughtless,  yet  able  to  be  very  generous  and  brave. 

The  bell  of  Saint  Mary's  tolled  three  strokes,  then 
four,  then  five,  then  one,  thirteen  in  all,  and  then 
rang  backward  for  the  ending  day.  The  sun  had 
set  a  full  half-hour  and  the  dusk  had  almost  drunk 
the  dregs  of  the  red  west.  Bernard  stood  still,  bare 
headed  in  the  way,  with  folded  hands,  and  began 
the  Angelus  Domini ;  the  King  from  habit  raised 
his  hand  to  take  his  cap  from  his  head,  and  touched 
the  golden  crown  instead.  Instantly  a  little  colour 
of  embarrassment  rose  in  his  pale  cheeks,  and  he 
stumbled  over  the  familiar  response  as  he  clasped 
his  hands  with  downcast  eyes,  for  in  some  ways  he 
was  a  timid  man.  The  Queen  stood  still  and  spoke 
the  words  also,  but  neither  the  attitude  of  her  head 


146  VIA   CRUCIS 

( 

nor  the  look  in  her  eyes  was  changed,  nor  did  she 
take  her  hand  from  her  belt  to  clasp  it  upon  the 
other.  The  air  was  very  soft  and  warm,  there  was 
the  musical,  low  sound  of  many  voices  speaking  in 
the  monotone  of  prayer,  and  now  and  then,  on  whir 
ring  wings,  a  droning  beetle  hummed  his  way  from 
one  field  to  another,  just  above  the  heads  of  the 
great  multitude. 

The  prayer  said,  they  all  moved  onward,  past 
the  first  houses  of  the  village  and  past  the  open 
smithy  with  its  shelter  of  twisted  chestnut  boughs, 
beneath  which  the  horses  were  protected  from  the 
sun  while  they  were  being  shod.  But  the  smith  had 
not  been  to  the  preaching,  because  Alric,  the  Saxon 
groom,  had  brought  him  Gilbert's  horse  to  shoe  just 
when  he  was  going,  and  had  forced  him  to  stay  and 
do  the  work  with  the  threat  of  an  evil  spell  learned 
in  Italy.  And  now,  peering  through  the  twilight, 
he  stood  watching  the  long  procession  as  it  came  up 
to  his  door.  He  was  a  dark  man,  with  red  eyes  and 
hairy  hands,  and  his  shirt  was  open  on  his  chest 
almost  to  his  belt.  He  stood  quite  still  at  first, 
gazing  on  Bernard's  face,  that  was  luminous  in  the 
dusk ;  but  as  he  looked,  something  moved  him  that 
he  could  not  understand,  and  he  came  forward  in 
his  leathern  apron  and  his  blackened  hose,  and  knelt 
at  the  abbot's  feet. 

"  Give  me  also  the  Cross,"  he  cried. 

"I  give  thee  the  sign,  my  son,"  answered  Ber 
nard,  raising  his  hand  to  bless  the  hairy  man.  "  The 
crosses  we  had  are  all  given.  But  thou  shalt  have 
one  to-morrow." 


VIA   CRtJCIS  147 

But  as  the  smith  looked  up  to  the  inspired  face 
the  light  came  into  his  own  eyes,  and  something  he 
could  not  see  took  hold  of  him  suddenly  and  hard. 

"Nay,  my  lord,"  he  answered,  "I  will  have  it 
to-day  and  of  my  own." 

Then  he  sprang  up  and  ran  to  his  smithy,  and 
came  back  holding  in  his  hand  a  bar  of  iron  that 
had  been  heating  in  the  coals  to  make  a  shoe.  The 
end  of  it  was  glowing  red. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  !  "  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice. 

And  as  he  spoke  the  words,  he  had  laid  the  red-hot 
point  to  his  breast  and  had  drawn  it  down  and  cross 
wise  ;  and  a  little  line  of  thin,  white  smoke  followed 
the  hissing  iron  along  the  seared  flesh.  He  threw 
the  bar  down  upon  the  threshold  of  his  door  and 
came  to  join  the  throng,  the  strange  smile  on  his 
rough  face  and  the  light  of  another  world  in  his  fire- 
reddened  eyes.  But  though  the  multitude  sent  up 
a  great  cry  of  praise  and  wonder,  yet  Bernard  shook 
his  head  gravely  and  walked  on,  for  he  loved  not  any 
madness,  not  even  a  madness  for  good  deeds,  and 
the  light  by  which  he  saw  was  as  steady  and  clear 
and  true  as  a  life-long  day. 

Moreover,  even  while  he  had  been  speaking  he  had 
felt  that  fanatic  deeds  were  not  far  off,  and  a  deep 
sadness  had  fallen  upon  him,  because  he  knew  that 
true  belief  is  the  fulness  of  true  wisdom  and  by  no 
means  akin  to  any  folly. 

Therefore,  when  he  was  alone  that  night,  he  was 
very  heavy-hearted,  and  sat  a  long  time  by  his  square 
oak  table  in  the  light  of  the  three-cornered  brazen 


148  VIA  CKUCIS 

lamp  which  stood  at  his  elbow.  The  principal 
chamber  of  the  presbytery  was  cross-vaulted  and 
divided  into  two  by  a  low  round  arch  supported  on 
slender  double  columns  with  capitals  fantastically 
carved.  The  smaller  portion  of  the  room  beyond 
the  arch  made  an  alcove  for  sleeping,  which  could 
be  completely  shut  off  by  a  heavy  curtain ;  the 
larger  part  was  paved  with  stone,  and  in  one  corner 
a  low  wooden  platform,  on  which  stood  a  heavy  table 
before  a  carved  bench  fastened  to  the  wall,  was  set 
apart  for  writing  and  study.  On  the  table,  besides 
the  lamp,  there  stood  a  reading-desk,  and  above  the 
bench  a  strong  shelf  carried  a  number  of  objects, 
including  several  large  bottles  of  ink,  a  pot  of  glue 
for  fastening  leaves  of  parchment,  and  two  or  three 
jars  of  blue  and  white  earthenware.  On  nails 
there  hung  a  brush  of  half  dried  broom,  a  broad- 
brimmed  rush  hat,  and  a  blackened  rosary.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  and  by  the  window,  there  was 
a  small  holy-water  basin  with  a  little  besom.  On 
the  walls  were  hung  pieces  of  coarse  linen  roughly 
embroidered  with  small  crosses  flory,  worked  in  dark 
red  silk.  The  vault  was  blank  and  white,  and 
rushes  were  strewn  on  the  stone  pavement.  In  the 
deep  embrasures  -of  the  windows  there  were  dark 
window-seats  worn  black  with  age. 

The  abbot  had  begun  a  letter,  but  the  pen  lay 
beside  the  unfinished  writing,  his  elbow  rested  on 
the  parchment,  and  he  shaded  his  eyes  from  the 
light.  The  brilliancy  was  gone  from  his  face  and 
was  succeeded  by  an  almost  earthy  pallor,  while 
his  attitude  expressed  both  lassitude  and  dejection. 


VIA   CETJCIS  149 

He  had  done  what  had  been  required  of  him,  he  had 
fired  the  passion  of  the  hour,  and  one  hour  had  shown 
him  how  completely  it  was  to  be  beyond  his  control. 
He  remembered  how  Peter  the  Hermit  had  led  the  vast 
advance-guard  of  the  First  Crusade  to  sudden  and 
miserable  destruction  before  the  main  force  could  be 
organized  ;  he  had  seen  enough  on  that  afternoon 
to  prove  to  him  that  the  air  was  laden  with  such 
disaster,  of  which  the  responsibility  would  surely 
be  heaped  upon  himself.  He  regretted  not  the 
thoughts  he  had  preached,  but  the  fact  of  having 
yielded  to  preach  at  all  to  such  men  and  at  such  a 
time.  He  had  begun  to  set  forth  all  this  and  much, 
more  in  a  letter  to  Pope  Eugenius,  but  before  he  had 
written  a  dozen  lines  the  pen  had  fallen  from  his  hand, 
and  he  had  begun  to  reflect  upon  the  impossibility 
of  stemming  the  tide  since  it  had  turned  to  flood. 

A  soft  step  sounded  in  the  outer  hall  beyond  the 
curtained  doorway,  but  Bernard,  absorbed  in  his 
meditations,  heard  nothing.  A  jewelled  hand 
pushed  aside  the  thick  folds  of  the  hanging,  and 
the  most  beautiful  eyes  in  the  world  gazed  curiously 
upon  the  unheeding  abbot. 

"  Are  you  alone  ?  "  asked  the  Queen's  voice. 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  came  forward 
into  the  room  and  paused  beside  the  low  platform, 
laying  one  hand  upon  the  table  in  a  gesture  half 
friendly,  half  deprecating,  as  if  she  still  feared 
that  she  had  disturbed  the  holy  man.  His  trans 
parent  fingers  fell  from  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  up 
to  her,  hardly  realizing  who  she  was,  and  quite 
unable  to  guess  why  she  had  come.  A  dark  brown 


150  VIA   CRTJCIS 

mantle  completely  covered  her  gown,  and  only  a 
little  of  her  scarlet  sleeve  showed  as  her  hand  lay 
on  the  table.  Her  russet-golden  hair  hung  in 
broad  waves  and  lightened  in  the  rays  of  the  oil 
lamp.  Her  eyes,  that  looked  at  Bernard  intently 
and  inquiringly,  were  the  eyes  of  old  Duke  William, 
whom  the  Abbot  of  Clairvaux  had  brought  to  con 
fession  and  penance  long  ago,  and  who  had  gone  from 
the  altar  of  his  grand-daughter's  marriage  straight 
to  solitary  hermitage  and  lonely  death  in  the  Spanish 
hills  ;  they  were  eyes  in  which  all  thoughts  were 
fearless  and  in  which  tenderness  was  beautiful,  but 
in  which  kindness  was  often  out  of  sight  behind 
the  blaze  of  vitality  and  the  burning  love  of  life 
that  proceeded  from  her  and  surrounded  her  as  an 
atmosphere  of  her  own. 

"  You  do  not  welcome  me,"  she  said,  looking  into 
his  face.  "  Are  you  too  deeply  occupied  to  talk  with 
me  awhile  ?  It  is  long  since  we  have  met." 

Bernard  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to 
brush  away  some  material  veil. 

"  I  am  at  your  Grace's  service,"  he  said  gently,  and 
he  rose  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  ask  no  service  for  myself,"  she  answered,  setting 
her  foot  upon  the  platform  and  coming  to  his  side. 
"Yet  I  ask  something  which  you  may  do  for 
others." 

Bernard  hesitated,  and  then  looked  down. 

"  Silver  and  gold  have  I  none,"  he  said,  quoting, 
"but  such  as  I  have  I  give  unto  thee." 

"  I  have  both  gold  and  silver,  and  lands,  and  a 
crown,"  answered  the  Queen,  smiling  carelessly,  and 


VIA   CRUCIS  151 

yet  in  earnest.  "  I  lack  faith.  And  so,  though  my 
people  have  swords  and  armour,  and  have  taken 
upon  them  the  Cross  to  succour  their  brethren  in  the 
Holy  Land,  yet  they  have  no  leader." 

"  They  have  the  King,  your  husband,"  answered 
Bernard,  gravely. 

Eleanor  laughed,  not  very  cruelly,  nor  altogether 
scornfully,  but  as  a  man  might  laugh  who  was  mis 
understood,  and  to  whom,  asking  for  his  sword,  a 
servant  should  bring  his  pen. 

"  The  King  !  "  she  cried,  still  smiling.  « The 
King  !  Are  you  so  great  in  mind  and  so  poor  in 
sense  as  to  think  that  he  could  lead  men  and  win  ? 
The  King  is  no  leader.  He  is  your  acolyte  —  I  like 
to  see  him  swinging  a  censer  in  time  to  your  prayers 
and  flattening  his  flat  face  upon  the  altar-steps  beati 
fied  by  your  footsteps  !  " 

The  Queen  laughed,  for  she  had  moods  in  which 
she  feared  neither  God,  nor  saint,  nor  man.  But 
Bernard  looked  grave  at  first,  then  hurt,  and  then 
there  was  pity  in  his  eyes.  He  pointed  to  the 
window-seat  beside  the  table,  and  he  himself  sat 
down  upon  his  carved  bench.  Eleanor,  being  seated, 
rested  her  elbows  on  the  table,  clasped  her  beautiful 
hands  together,  and  slowly  rubbed  her  cheek  against 
them,  meditating  what  she  should  say  next.  She 
had  had  no  fixed  purpose  in  coining  to  the  abbot's 
lodging,  but  she  had  always  liked  to  talk  with  him 
when  he  was  at  leisure  and  to  see  the  look  of  puzzled 
and  pained  surprise  that  came  into  his  face  when  she 
said  anything  more  than  usually  shocking  to  his 
delicate  sensibilities.  With  impulses  of  tremendous 


152  VIA   CRUCIS 

force,  there  was  at  the  root  of  her  character  a  youth 
ful  and  almost  childlike  indifference  to  consequences. 

"  You  misjudge  your  husband,"  said  the  abbot,  at 
last,  drumming  on  the  table  nervously  and  absently 
with  the  tips  of  his  white  fingers.  "  They  who  do 
their  own  will  only  are  quick  to  condemn  those  who 
hope  to  accomplish  the  will  of  Heaven." 

"If  you  regard  the  King  as  the  instrument  of 
Divine  Providence,"  answered  Eleanor,  with  curling 
lip,  "there  is  nothing  to  be  said.  Providence,  for 
instance,  was  angered  with  the  people  of  Vitry. 
Providence  selected  the  King  of  France  to  be  the 
representative  of  its  wrath.  The  King,  obedient  as 
ever,  set  fire  to  the  church,  and  burned  several  priests 
and  two  thousand  more  or  less  innocent  persons  at 
their  prayers.  Nothing  could  be  better.  Providence 
was  appeased  —  " 

"  Hush,  Madam  ! "  exclaimed  Bernard,  lifting  a 
thin  hand  in  deprecation.  "  That  was  the  devil's 
work." 

"  You  told  me  that  I  was  condemning  one  who  is 
accomplishing  the  will  of  Heaven." 

"  In  leading  the  Crusade,  yes  —  " 

"  Then  my  husband  works  for  both  parties.  To 
day  he  serves  God  ;  to-morrow  he  serves  Mammon." 
Eleanor  raised  her  finely  pencilled  eyebrows.  "  I  be 
lieve  there  is  a  parable  that  teaches  us  what  is  to 
become  of  those  that  serve  two  masters." 

"  It  applies  to  those  who  try  to  serve  them  at  the 
same  time,"  answered  the  abbot,  meeting  her  con 
temptuous  look  with  the  quiet  boldness  of  a  man 
sure  of  power.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  that  the 


VIA   CRUCIS  153 

King  took  oath  to  lead  a  Crusade  out  of  repentance 
for  what  he  did  at  Vitry." 

"A  bargain,  then,  of  the  very  kind  against  which 
you  preached  to-day."  The  Queen  still  smiled,  but 
less  scornfully,  for  she  fancied  herself  as  good  as 
Bernard  in  an  argument. 

"It  is  a  very  easy  thing  to  fence  with  words," 
Bernard  said.  "  It  is  one  thing  to  argue,  it  is  quite 
another  to  convince  your  hearers." 

"  I  do  not  desire  to  convince  you  of  anything,'* 
answered  Eleanor,  with  a  little  laugh.  "I  would 
rather  be  convinced." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  and  then  turned 
away  with  a  weary  little  sigh  of  discontent. 

"  Was  it  without  conviction  that  you  took  the 
Cross  from  my  hands  to-day  ?  "  asked  Bernard,  sadly. 

"  It  was  in  the  hope  of  conviction." 

Bernard  understood.  Before  him,  within  reach  of 
his  hand,  that  great  problem  was  present  which,  of  all 
others,  Paganism  most  easily  and  clearly  solved,  but 
with  which  Christianity  grapples  at  a  disadvantage, 
finding  its  foothold  narrow,  and  its  danger  constant 
and  great.  It  is  the  problem  of  the  conversion  of 
great  and  vital  natures,  brave,  gifted  and  sure  of  self, 
to  the  condition  of  the  humble  and  poor  in  spirit.  It 
is  easy  to  convince  the  cripple  that  peace  is  among 
the  virtues  ;  the  sick  man  and  the  weak  are  soon 
persuaded  that  the  world  is  a  sensuous  illusion  of 
Satan,  in  which  the  pure  and  perfect  have  no  part 
nor  share  ;  it  is  another,  a  greater  and  a  harder  mat 
ter,  to  prove  the  strong  man  a  sinner  by  his  strength, 
and  to  make  woman's  passion  ridiculous  in  com- 


154  VIA   CRUCIS 

parison  of  heaven.  The  clear  flame  of  the  spirit 
burns  ill  under  the  breath  of  this  dying  body,  and 
for  the  fleeting  touch  of  a  loving  hand  the  majesty 
of  God  is  darkened  in  a  man's  heart. 

Bernard  saw  before  him  the  incarnate  strength 
and  youth  and  beauty  of  her  from  whom  a  line  of 
kings  was  to  descend,  and  in  whom  were  all  the 
greatest  and  least  qualities,  virtues  and  failings  of 
her  unborn  children  —  the  Lion  Heart  of  Richard, 
the  heartless  selfishness  of  John,  the  second  Edward's 
grasping  hold,  Henry  the  Third's  broad  justice  and 
wisdom;  the  doubt  of  one,  the  decision  of  another, 
the  passions  of  them  all  in  one,  coursing  in  the  blood 
of  a  young  and  kingly  race. 

"  You  wish  not  to  convince  others,  but  to  be  con 
vinced,"  Bernard  said,  "and  yet  it  is  not  in  your 
nature  to  yield  yourself  to  any  conviction.  What 
would  you  of  me  ?  I  can  preach  to  them  that  will 
hear  me,  not  to  those  that  come  to  watch  me  and  to 
smile  at  my  sayings  as  if  I  were  a  player  in  a  booth 
at  a  fair.  Why  do  you  come  here  to-night  ?  Can  I 
give  you  faith  as  a  salve,  wherewith  to  anoint  your 
blind  eyes  ?  Can  I  furnish  you  the  girdle  of  honesty 
for  the  virtue  you  have  not?  Shall  I  promise  re 
pentance  for  you  to  God,  while  you  smile  on  your 
next  lover  ?  Why  have  you  sought  me  out  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  known  that  you  had  no  leisure,  and  the 
Church  no  room  for  any  but  the  altogether  perfect, 
I  would  not  have  come." 

She  leaned  back  in  the  window-seat  and  folded  her 
arms,  drawing  the  thin  dark  stuff  of  her  cloak  into 
severe  straight  lines  and  shadows,  in  vivid  contrast 


VIA   CRUCIS  155 

with  the  radiant  beauty  of  her  face.  Her  straight 
and  clear-cut  brows  lowered  over  her  deep  eyes,  and 
her  lips  were  as  hard  as  polished  coral. 

Bernard  looked  at  her  again  long  and  earnestly, 
understanding  in  part,  and  in  part  guessing,  that  she 
had  suffered  a  secret  disappointment  on  that  day  and 
had  come  to  him  rather  in  the  hope  of  some  kind  of 
mental  excitement  than  with  any  idea  of  obtaining 
consolation.  To  him,  filled  as  he  was  with  the  lofty 
thoughts  inspired  by  the  mission  thrust  upon  him, 
there  was  something  horrible  in  the  woman's  frivolity 
—  or  cynicism.  To  him  the  Cross  meant  the  Passion 
of  Christ,  the  shedding  of  God's  blood,  the  Redemp 
tion  of  mankind.  To  her  it  was  a  badge,  an  orna 
ment,  the  excuse  for  a  luxurious  pilgrimage  of  fair 
women  living  delicately  in  silken  tents,  and  clothed 
in  fine  garments  of  a  fanciful  fashion.  The  contrast 
was  too  strong,  too  painful.  Eleanor  and  her  girl 
knights  would  be  too  wholly  out  of  place,  with  their 
fancies  and  their  whims,  in  an  army  of  devoted  men 
fighting  for  a  faith,  for  a  faith's  high  principle  as 
between  race  and  race,  and  for  all  which  that  faith 
had  made  sacred  in  its  most  holy  places.  It  was 
too  much.  In  profoundest  disappointment  and  sad 
ness  Bernard's  head  sank  upon  his  breast,  and  he 
raised  his  hands  a  little,  to  let  them  fall  again  upon 
his  knees,  as  if  he  were  almost  ready  to  give  up  the 
struggle. 

Eleanor  felt  the  wicked  little  thrill  of  triumph  in 
his  apparent  despair  which  compensates  schoolboys 
for  unimaginable  labour  in  mischief,  when  they  at 
last  succeed  in  hurting  the  feelings  of  a  long-suffer- 


156  VIA   CRUCIS 

ing  teacher.  There  had  been  nothing  but  an  almost 
childish  desire  to  tease  at  the  root  of  all  that  she  had 
said;  for  before  all  things  she  was  young  and  gay, 
and  her  surroundings  tended  in  every  way  to  repress 
both  gayety  and  youth. 

"  You  must  not  take  everything  I  say  in  earnest," 
she  said  suddenly,  with  a  laugh  that  jarred  on  the 
delicate  nerves  of  the  overwrought  man. 

He  turned  his  head  from  her  as  if  the  sight 
of  her  face  would  have  been  disagreeable  just 
then. 

"  Jest  with  life  if  you  can,"  he  said.  "  Jest  with 
death  if  you  are  brave  enough;  yet  at  least  be  ear 
nest  in  this  great  matter.  If  you  are  fixed  in  pur 
pose  to  go  with  the  King,  you  and  your  ladies,  then 
go  with  the  purpose  to  do  good,  to  bind  up  men's 
wounds,  to  tend  the  sick,  to  cheer  the  weak,  and  by 
your  presence  to  make  the  coward  ashamed." 

"And  why  not  to  fight?"  asked  the  Queen,  the 
light  of  an  untried  emotion  brightening  in  her  eyes. 
"  Do  you  think  I  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  mail,  or 
sit  a  horse,  or  handle  a  sword  as  well  as  many  a  boy 
of  twenty  who  will  be  there  in  the  thick  of  battle  ? 
And  if  I  and  my  court  ladies  can  bear  the  weariness 
as  well  as  even  the  weakest  man  in  the  King's  army, 
and  risk  a  life  as  bravely,  and  perhaps  strike  a  clean 
blow  or  drive  a  straight  thrust  for  the  Holy  Sepul 
chre,  shall  our  souls  have  no  good  of  it,  because  we  are 
women  ?  " 

As  she  spoke,  her  arm  lay  across  the  table,  and  her 
small  strong  hand  moved  energetically  with  her 
speech,  touching  the  monk's  sleeve.  The  fighting 


VIA   CRUCIS  157 

blood  of  the  old  Duke  was  in  her  veins,  and  there 
was  battle  in  her  voice.  Bernard  looked  up. 

"  If  you  were  always  what  you  are  at  this  moment," 
he  said,  "  and  if  you  had  a  thousand  such  women  as 
yourself  to  ride  with  you,  the  King  would  need  no 
other  army,  for  you  could  face  the  Seljuks  alone. 

"  But  you  think  that  by  the  time  I  have  to  face 
them  my  courage  will  have  cooled  to  woman's  tears, 
like  hot  vapour  on  a  glass." 

She  smiled,  but  gently  now,  for  she  was  pleased  by 
what  he  had  said. 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  she  continued,  before  he  had 
time  to  answer  her.  "  We  shall  not  bear  ourselves 
worse  than  men,  and  there  will  be  grown  men  there 
who  shall  be  afraid  before  we  are.  But  if  there  were 
with  us  a  leader  of  men,  I  should  have  no  fear.  Men 
will  fight  for  the  King,  they  will  shed  their  blood  for 
Eleanor  of  Guienne,  but  they  would  die  ten  deaths 
at  the  bidding  of  —  " 

She  paused,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  Bernard's  face. 

"  Of  whom  ?  "  he  asked,  unsuspecting. 

"Of  Bernard  of  Clairvaux." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  in  a  clear  far-off 
voice,  as  if  in  a  dream,  the  abbot  repeated  his  own 
name. 

"  Bernard  of  Clairvaux  —  a  leader  of  men  ?  A 
soldier  ?  A  general  ?  "  He  paused  as  if  consulting 
himself.  "  Madam,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  am  neither 
general,  nor  leader,  nor  soldier.  I  am  a  monk,  and 
a  churchman  as  the  Hermit  was,  but  not  like  him 
in  this  —  I  know  the  limitation  of  my  strength.  I 
can  urge  men  to  fight  for  a  good  cause,  but  I  will 


158  VIA   CRUCIS 

not  lead  them  to  death  and  ruin,  as  Peter  did,  while 
there  are  men  living  who  have  been  trained  to  the 
sword  as  I  to  the  pen." 

"  I  do  not  ask  that  you  should  plan  battles,  lead  for 
lorn  charges,  nor  sit  down  in  your  tent  to  study  the 
destruction  of  walled  towns.  You  can  be  our  leader 
without  all  that,  for  he  who  leads  men's  souls  com 
mands  men's  bodies  and  lives  in  men's  hearts. 
Therefore,  I  bid  you  to  come  with  us  and  help  us, 
for  although  a  sword  is  better  at  need  than  a  hun 
dred  words,  yet  there  are  men  at  whose  single  word 
a  thousand  swords  are  drawn  like  one." 

"  No,  Madam,"  said  the  abbot,  his  even  lips  closing 
after  the  words,  with  a  look  of  final  decision,  "  I 
will  not  go  with  you.  First,  because  I  am  unfit  to 
be  a  leader  of  armies,  and  secondly,  because  such  life 
as  there  is  left  in  me  can  be  better  used  at  home 
than  in  following  a  camp.  Lastly,  I  would  that  this 
good  fight  might  be  fought  soberly  and  in  earnest, 
neither  in  the  fever  of  a  fanatical  fury  nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  lightly,  as  an  amusement  and  a  play,  nor 
selfishly  and  meanly  in  the  hope  of  gain.  My  words 
are  neither  deep,  nor  learned,  nor  well  chosen,  for  I 
speak  as  my  thoughts  rise  and  overflow.  But  thanks 
be  to  Heaven,  what  I  say  rouses  men  to  act  rather 
than  moves  them  to  think.  Yet  it  is  not  well  that 
they  be  over-roused  or  stirred  when  a  long  war  is 
before  them,  lest  their  heat  be  consumed  in  a  flash  of 
fire,  and  their  strength  in  a  single  blow.  You  need 
not  a  preacher,  but  a  captain  ;  not  words  but  deeds. 
You  go  to  make  history,  not  to  hear  a  prophecy." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  the  Queen,  "you  must   go 


VIA   CRUCIS  159 

with  us,  for  if  the  spirit  you  have  called  up  sinks 
from  men's  memories,  our  actions  will  be  worse  than 
spiritless.  You  must  go." 

"I  cannot." 

"  Cannot?     But  I  say  you  must." 

"No,  Madam  —  I  say  no." 

For  a  long  time  the  two  sat  in  silence  facing  each 
other,  the  Queen  confident,  vital,  fully  roused  to  the 
expression  of  her  will ;  Bernard,  on  the  other  hand, 
as  fully  determined  to  oppose  her  with  all  the  fervent 
conviction  which  he  brought  to  every  question  of 
judgment  or  policy. 

"If  we  fall  out  among  ourselves,"  said  Eleanor, 
at  last,  "  who  shall  unite  us  ?  If  men  lose  faith  in 
the  cause  before  them  and  grow  greedy  of  the  things 
that  lie  in  their  way,  who  shall  set  them  right  ?  " 

The  abbot  shook  his  head  sorrowfully  and  would 
not  meet  her  eyes,  for  in  this  he  knew  that  she  was 
right. 

"  When  an  army  has  lost  faith,"  he  said,  "  it  is 
already  beaten.  When  Atalanta  stooped  to  pick  up 
the  golden  apples,  her  race  was  lost." 

"  As  when  love  dies,  contempt  and  hatred  take  its 
place,"  said  Eleanor,  as  if  in  comment. 

"  Such  love  is  of  hell,"  said  Bernard,  looking  sud 
denly  into  her  face,  so  that  she  faintly  blushed. 

"  Yes,"  she  retorted  scornfully,  "  for  it  is  the  love 
of  man  and  wife." 

The  holy  man  watched  her  sadly  and  yet  keenly, 
for  he  knew  what  she  meant,  and  he  foresaw  the  end. 

"  Lucifer  rebelled  against  law,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  not  wonder,"  said  the  Queen,  with  a  sharp 


160  VIA   CRTJCIS 

laugh.  "  He  would  have  rebelled  against  marriage. 
Love  is  the  true  faith  —  marriage  is  the  dogma." 
She  laughed  again. 

Bernard  shrank  a  little  as  if  he  felt  actual  pain. 
He  had  known  her  since  she  had  been  a  little  child, 
yet  he  had  never  become  used  to  her  cruelties  of 
expression.  He  was  a  man  more  easily  disgusted  in 
his  aesthetic  sensibilities  than  shocked  by  the  wicked 
ness  of  a  world  he  knew.  To  him,  God  was  not 
only  great,  but  beautiful;  Nature,  as  some  theologians 
maintain,  was  cruel,  evil,  hurtful,  but  she  was  never 
coarse,  nor  foul  in  his  conception,  and  her  beauty 
appealed  to  him  against  his  will.  So  also  in  his  eyes 
a  woman  could  be  sinful,  and  her  sins  might  seem  ter 
rible  to  him,  and  yet  she  herself  was  to  him  a  woman 
still,  a  being  delicate,  refined,  tender  even  in  her 
wickedness  ;  but  a  woman  who  could  speak  at  once 
keenly  and  brutally  of  her  marriage  reacted  upon  him 
as  a  very  ugly  or  painful  sight,  or  as  a  very  harsh  and 
discordant  sound  that  jars  every  nerve  in  the  body. 

"  Madam,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  but  very  quietly 
and  coldly,  "  I  think  not  that  you  are  in  such  state 
of  grace  as  to  bear  the  Cross  to  your  good." 

Eleanor  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  haugh 
tily,  with  lids  half  drooped  as  her  eyes  grew  hard 
and  keen. 

"  You  are  not  my  confessor,  sir,"  she  retorted. 
"  For  all  you  know,  he  may  have  enjoined  upon  me  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land.  It  is  a  common  pen 
ance."  For  the  third  time  she  laughed. 

"  A  common  penance  !  "  cried  the  abbot,  in  a  tone 
of  despair.  "  That  is  what  it  has  come  to  in  these 


VIA   CRUCIS  161 

days.  A  man  kills  his  neighbour  in  a  quarrel  and 
goes  to  Jerusalem  to  purge  him  of  blood,  as  he  would 
take  a  physician's  draught  to  cure  him  of  the  least 
of  little  aches.  A  pilgrimage  is  a  remedy,  as  a  prayer 
is  a  medicine.  To  repeat  the  act  of  contrition  so  and 
so  often,  or  to  run  through  a  dozen  rosaries  of  an 
afternoon,  is  a  potion  for  the  sick  soul." 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  "  asked  the  Queen, 

"  What  then  ?  "  repeated  the  abbot.  "  Then  there 
is  no  faith  left  in  the  true  meaning  of  the  Crusade  —  " 

*'  That  is  what  I  fear,"  answered  Eleanor.  "  That 
is  why  I  am  begging  you  to  come  with  us.  That  is 
why  the  King  will  be  unable  to  command  men 
without  you.  And  yet  you  will  not  go." 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I  will  not." 

"  You  have  always  disappointed  me,"  said  the 
Queen,  rising,  and  employing  a  weapon  to  which 
women  usually  resort  last.  "You  stand  in  the 
front  and  will  not  lead,  you  rouse  men  to  deeds 
you  will  not  do,  you  give  men  ideals  in  which 
you  do  not  believe,  and  then  you  go  back  to  the 
peace  of  your  abbey  of  Clairvaux,  and  leave  men 
to  shift  for  themselves  in  danger  and  need.  And 
if,  perhaps,  some  trusting  woman  comes  to  you  with 
overladen  heart,  you  tell  her  that  she  is  not  in  a 
state  of  grace.  It  must  be  easy  to  be  a  great  man 
in  that  way." 

She  turned  as  she  spoke  the  last  words  and  stepped 
from  the  platform  to  the  stone  pavement.  At  the 
enormous  injustice  of  her  judgment,  Bernard's  face 
grew  cold  and  stern  ;  but  he  would  not  answer  what 
she  said,  for  he  knew  how  useless  it  would  be.  In 


162  VIA   CRUCIS 

her,  and  perhaps  in  her  only,  of  all  men  and  women 
he  had  known,  there  was  the  something  to  which  he 
could  not  speak,  the  element  that  was  out  of  har 
mony  with  his  own  being,  and  when  he  had  talked 
with  her  it  was  as  if  he  had  eaten  sand.  He  could 
understand  that  she,  too,  was  in  contradiction  with 
her  natural  feelings  in  her  marriage  with  such  a  man 
as  the  King  ;  he  could  be  sorry  for  her,  he  could  pity 
her,  he  could  forgive  her,  he  could  pray  for  her  — 
but  he  could  not  speak  to  her  as  he  could  to  others. 

A  dozen  times  before  she  reached  the  door  he 
wished  to  call  her  back,  and  he  sought  in  the  archive 
of  his  brain  and  in  the  treasury  of  his  heart  the 
words  that  might  touch  her.  But  he  sought  in  vain. 
So  long  as  she  was  before  his  eyes,  a  chilled  air,  dull 
and  unresonant,  divided  his  soul  from  hers.  Her 
hand  was  on  the  curtain  to  go  out  when  she  turned 
and  looked  at  him  again. 

"  You  will  not  go  with  us,"  she  said.  "  If  we  fail, 
we  shall  count  the  fault  yours  ;  if  we  quarrel  and 
turn  our  swords  upon  one  another,  the  sin  is  yours  ;  if 
our  armies  lose  heart,  and  are  scattered  and  hewn  in 
pieces,  their  blood  will  be  on  your  head.  But  if  we 
win,"  she  said  at  the  last,  drawing  herself  to  her 
height,  "  the  honour  of  our  deeds  shall  be  ours  alone, 
not  yours." 

She  had  raised  the  curtain,  and  it  fell  behind  her 
as  she  spoke  the  last  word,  leaving  the  abbot  no 
possibility  of  a  retort.  But  she  had  missed  her 
intention,  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  threatened 
from  the  right  he  had  planned.  When  she  was  gone, 
his  face  grew  sad,  and  calm,  and  weary  again,  and 


VIA   CRUCIS  163 

presently,  musing,  he  took  up  the  pen  that  lay 
beside  the  half -written  page. 

But  she  went  on  through  the  outer  hall  to  the 
vestibule,  drawing  her  thin  dark  mantle  about  her, 
her  lips  set  and  her  eyes  cruel,  for  she  had  been 
disappointed.  Beneath  the  idle  wish  to  hear  Ber 
nard  speak,  behind  the  strong  conviction  that  he 
must  follow  the  army  to  the  East  if  it  was  to  be 
victorious,  there  had  been  the  unconscious  longing 
for  a  return  of  that  brave  emotion  under  which,  in 
the  afternoon,  she  had  taken  the  Cross  with  her 
ladies.  And  a  woman  disappointed  of  strong  feel 
ing,  hoped  for  and  desired,  is  less  kind  than  a  strong 
man  defeated  of  expectation. 

She  was  alone.  Of  all  women,  she  hated  most  to 
be  followed  by  attendants  and  watched  by  inferiors 
when  she  chose  solitude.  Reliant  on  herself  and 
unaffectedly  courageous,  she  often  wondered  whether 
it  were  not  a  more  pleasant  thing  to  be  a  man  than 
to  be  even  the  fairest  of  womankind,  as  she  -was. 
She  stood  still  a  moment  in  the  vestibule,  drawing 
the  hood  of  her  cloak  over  her  head  and  half  across 
her  face.  The  outer  door  was  half  open ;  the  single 
lamp,  filled  with  olive-oil  and  hanging  from  the 
middle  of  the  vault,  cast  its  ray  out  into  the  night. 
As  Eleanor  stood  arranging  her  headdress  and 
almost  unconsciously  looking  toward  the  darkness, 
a  gleam  of  colour  and  steel  flashed  softly  in  the 
gloom.  It  disappeared  and  flashed  again,  for  a 
man  was  waiting  without  and  slowly  walking 
up  and  down  before  the  door.  The  Queen  had 
chosen  to  come  alone,  but  had  no  reason  for  con- 


164  VIA   CRTJCIS 

cealing  herself ;  she  made  two  steps  to  the  thresh 
old  and  looked  out,  opening  wide  one  half  of  thi 
door. 

The  man  stood  still  and  turned  his  head  without 
haste  as  the  fuller  light  fell  upon  him.  It  was 
Gilbert,  and  as  his  eyes  turned  to  the  Queen's  face, 
dark  against  the  brightness  within,  she  started  a 
little,  as  if  she  would  have  drawn  back,  and  she 
spoke  nervously,  in  a  low  voice,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  said. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Why  did  you  come 
here?" 

"Because  I  knew  your  Grace  was  here,"  he  an 
swered  quietly. 

"  You  knew  that  I  was  here ?     How?  v 

"  I  saw  you  —  I  followed." 

Under  her  hood,  the  Queen  felt  the  warm  blood 
in  her  cheeks.  Gilbert  was  very  good  to  see  as  he 
stood  just  outside  the  door,  in  the  bright  lamplight. 
He  was  pale,  but  not  wan  like  Bernard ;  he  was 
thin  with  the  leanness  of  vigorous  youth,  not  with 
fasting  and  vigils;  he  was  grave,  not  sad;  ener 
getic,  not  inspired;  and  his  face  was  handsome  rather 
than  beautiful.  Eleanor  looked  at  him  for  a  few 
moments  before  she  spoke  again. 

"  You  followed  me.     Why  ?  " 

"  To  beg  a  word  of  your  Grace's  favour." 

"  The  question  you  asked  today  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Is  it  so  urgent  ?  "  The  Queen  laughed  a  little, 
and  Gilbert  started  in  surprise. 

"Your  Grace  wrote  urgently,"  he  said. 


VIA   CKUCIS  165 

"  Then  you  are  zealous  only  to  obey  me  ?  I  like 
that.  You  shall  be  rewarded  I  But  I  have  changed 
my  mind.  If  the  letter  were  to  be  written  again, 
I  would  not  write  it." 

"  It  was  the  letter  of  a  friend.  Would  you  take 
it  back?" 

Gilbert's  face  showed  the  coming  disappointment. 
In  his  anxiety  he  pressed  nearer  to  her,  resting  his 
hand  on  the  doorpost.  The  Queen  drew  back  and 
smiled. 

"Was  it  so  very  friendly?"  she  asked.  "I  do 
not  remember  —  but  I  did  not  mean  it  so." 

"  Madam,  what  did  you  mean  ?  "  His  voice  was 
steady  and  rather  cold. 

"  Oh  —  I  have  quite  forgotten  !  "  She  almost 
laughed  again,  shaking  her  hooded  head. 

"  If  your  Grace  had  need  of  me,  I  might  under 
stand.  Beatrix  is  not  here.  I  looked  at  each  of 
your  ladies  to-day,  through  all  their  ranks  —  she 
was  not  among  them.  I  asked  where  she  was,  but 
you  would  not  answer  and  were  angry  —  " 

"  I  ?     Angry  ?     You  are  dreaming  !  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  angry,  because  you  changed 
colour  and  would  not  speak  again  —  " 

"  You  were  wrong.  Only  a  fool  can  be  angry  with 
ignorance. " 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  ignorant  ?  These  are  all 
riddles." 

"  And  you  are  not  good  at  guessing.  Come !  To 
show  you  that  I  was  not  angry,  I  will  have  you  walk 
with  me  down  through  the  village.  It  is  growing 
late." 


166  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  Your  Grace  is  alone  ?  " 

"Since  you  followed  me,  you  know  it.     Come." 

She  almost  pushed  him  aside  to  pass  out,  and  a 
moment  later  they  were  crossing  the  dark  open  space 
before  the  church.  Gilbert  was  not  easily  surprised, 
but  when  he  reflected  that  he  was  walking  late  at 
night  through  a  small  French  village  with  one  of  the 
most  powerful  sovereigns  in  Europe,  who  was  at  the 
same  time  the  most  beautiful  of  living  women,  he 
realized  that  his  destiny  was  not  leading  him  by 
common  paths.  He  remembered  his  own  surprise 
when,  an  hour  earlier,  he  had  seen  the  Queen's  unmis 
takable  figure  pass  the  open  window  of  his  lodging. 
And  yet  should  any  one  see  her  now,  abroad  at  such 
an  hour,  in  the  company  of  a  young  Englishman, 
there  would  be  much  more  matter  for  astonishment. 
Half  boyishly  he  wished  that  he  were  not  himself,  or 
else  that  the  Queen  were  Beatrix.  As  for  his  actual 
position  in  the  Queen's  good  graces,  he  had  not  the 
slightest  understanding  of  it,  a  fact  which  just  then 
amused  Eleanor  almost  as  much  as  it  irritated  her. 
The  road  was  uneven  and  steep  beyond  the  little 
square.  For  some  moments  they  walked  side  by 
side  in  silence.  From  far  away  came  the  sound  of 
many  rough  voices  singing  a  drinking-chorus. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,"  said  Eleanor,  suddenly. 

As  she  spoke,  she  put  out  her  hand,  as  if  she  feared 
to  stumble.  Doing  as  she  begged  him,  Gilbert 
suited  his  steps  to  hers,  and  they  were  very  close 
together  as  they  went  on.  He  had  never  walked 
arm  in  arm  in  that  way  before,  nor  perhaps  had  he 
ever  been  so  close  to  any  other  woman.  An  inde- 


VIA   CRUCIS  167 

scribable  sensation  took  possession  of  him;  he  felt 
that  his  step  was  less  steady,  and  that  his  head  was 
growing  hot  and  his  hands  cold  ;  and  somehow  he 
knew  that  whereas  the  idea  of  love  was  altogether 
beyond  and  out  of  the  question,  yet  he  was  spell 
bound  in  the  charm  of  a  new  and  mysterious 
attraction.  With  it  there  was  the  instantaneous 
certainty  that  it  was  evil,  with  the  equally  sure 
knowledge  that  if  it  grew  upon  him  but  a  few 
moments  longer  he  should  not  be  able  to  resist  it. 

Eleanor  would  not  have  been  a  woman  had  she 
not  understood. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  gently,  and 
under  her  hood  she  was  smiling. 

"The  matter?"  Gilbert  spoke  nervously.  "There 
is  nothing  the  matter ;  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  Your  arm  trembled,"  answered  the  Queen. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  afraid  that  you  were  going  to  fall.' 

At  this  the  Queen  laughed  aloud. 

"Are  you  so  anxious  for  my  safety  as  that?"  she 
inquired. 

Gilbert  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"  It  seems  so  strange,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  your 
Grace  should  choose  to  be  abroad  alone  so  late  at 
night." 

"  I  am  not  alone,"  she  answered. 

At  that  moment  her  foot  seemed  to  slip,  and  her 
hand  tightened  suddenly  upon  Gilbert's  arm.  But 
as  he  thought  her  in  danger  of  falling,  he  caught  her 
round  the  waist  and  held  her  up ;  and,  as  he  almost 
clasped  her  to  him,  the  mysterious  influence  strength 
ened  his  hold  in  a  most  unnecessary  manner. 


168  VIA   CKUCIS 

"  I  never  slip,"  said  Eleanor,  by  way  of  explaining 
the  fact  that  she  had  just  stumbled. 

"No,"  answered  Gilbert.     "  Of  course  not." 

And  he  continued  to  hold  her  fast.  She  made  a 
little  movement  vaguely  indicating  that  she  wished 
him  to  let  her  go,  and  her  free  right  hand  pretended 
to  loosen  his  from  her  waist.  He  felt  infinitesimal 
lines  of  fire  running  from  his  head  to  his  feet,  and  he 
saw  lights  where  there  were  none. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said,  almost  under  her  breath; 
and  accentuating  her  words  with  little  efforts  of  hand 
and  body,  it  accidentally  happened  that  her  head  was 
against  his  breast  for  a  moment. 

The  fire  grew  hotter,  the  lights  brighter,  and,  with 
the  consciousness  of  doing  something  at  once  terrible 
yet  surpassingly  sweet  to  do,  he  allowed  his  lips  to 
touch  the  dark  stuff  that  hid  her  russet  hair.  But 
she  was  quite  unaware  of  this  desperate  deed.  A 
moment  later  she  seemed  to  hear  something,  for  she 
turned  her  head  quickly,  as  if  listening,  and  spoke 
in  an  anxious  half -whisper. 

"  Take  care  !     There  is  somebody  —  " 

Instantly  Gilbert's  hand  dropped  to  his  side  and 
he  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  respectful  protector. 
The  Queen  continued  to  stare*  into  the  darkness  a 
moment  longer,  and  then  began  to  walk  on. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  she  said  carelessly. 

"  I  hear  men  singing,"  said  Gilbert. 

"  I  dare  say,"  answered  Eleanor,  with  perfect 
indifference.  "I  have  heard  them  for  some  time." 

One  voice  rose  higher  and  louder  than  the  rest 
as  the  singers  approached,  and  the  other  voices 


VIA   CRFCIS  169 

joined  in  the  rough,  chorus  of  a  Burgundy  drinking- 
song.  Near  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  lights 
were  flashing  and  moving  unsteadily  in  the  road 
as  those  who  carried  them  staggered  along.  To 
reach  the  monastery  which  was  the  headquarters  of 
the  court,  the  Queen  and  Gilbert  would  have  to  walk 
a  hundred  yards  down  the  street  before  turning  to 
the  right.  Gilbert  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  them  to  reach  the  turning  before 
meeting  the  drunken  crowd. 

"  It  would  be  better  to  go  back  by  another  way," 
he  said,  slackening  his  pace. 

But  the  Queen  walked  quietly  on  without  answer 
ing  him.  It  was  clear  that  she  intended  to  make 
the  people  stand  aside  to  let  her  pass,  for  she  con 
tinued  to  walk  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  But  Gil 
bert  gently  drew  her  aside,  and  she  suffered  him 
to  lead  her  to  a  doorway,  raised  two  steps  above  the 
street,  and  darkened  by  an  overhanging  balcony. 
There  they  stood  and  waited.  A  dense  throng  of 
grooms,  archers  and  men-at-arms  came  roaring  up 
the  steep  way  toward  them.  A  huge  man  in  a 
dirty  scarlet  tunic  and  dusty  russet  hose,  with  soft 
boots  that  were  slipping  down  in  folds  about  his 
ankles,  staggered  along  in  front  of  the  rest.  His 
face  was  on  fire  with  wine,  his  little  red  eyes  glared 
dully  from  under  swollen  lids,  and  as  he  bawled  his 
song  with  mouth  wide  open,  one  might  have  tossed 
an  apple  between  his  wolfish  teeth.  In  his  right 
hand  he  held  an  earthen  jug  in  which  there  was 
still  a  little  wine ;  with  his  left  he  brandished  a  ban 
ner  that  had  been  made  by  sewing  a  broad  red 


270  VIA   CRTJCIS 

cross  upon  a  towel  tied  to  one  of  those  long  wands 
with  which  farmers'  boys  drive  geese  to  feed.  Half 
dancing,  half  marching,  and  reeling  at  every  step,  he 
came  along,  followed  closely  by  a  dozen  companions 
one  degree  less  burty  than  himself,  but  at  least  quite 
as  drunk  ;  and  each  had  upon  his  breast  or  shoulder 
the  cross  he  had  received  that  day.  Behind  them 
more  and  more,  closer  and  closer,  the  others  came 
stumbling,  rolling,  jostling  each  other,  howling  the 
chorus  of  the  song.  And  every  now  and  then  the 
leader,  swinging  his  banner  and  his  wine  jug,  sent  a 
shower  of  red  drops  into  the  faces  of  his  followers, 
some  of  whom  laughed,  and  some  swore  loudly  in 
curses  that  made  themselves  felt  through  the  roaring 
din.  But  loudest,  highest,  clearest  of  all,  from  within 
the  heart  of  the  drunken  crowd,  came  one  of  those 
voices  that  are  made  to  be  heard  in  storm  and  battle. 
In  a  tune  of  its  own,  regardless  of  the  singing  of  all 
the  rest,  it  was  chanting  the  Magnificat  anima  mea 
Dominum.  Long-drawn,  sustained,  and  of  brazen 
quality,  it  calmly  defied  all  other  din,  and  as  the  crowd 
drew  nearer  Gilbert  saw  through  the  torchlight  the 
thin  white  face  of  a  very  tall  man  in  the  midst,  with 
half-closed  eyes  and  lips  that  wore  a  look  of  pain 
as  he  sang — the  face,  the  look,  the  voice  of  a  man 
who  in  the  madness  of  liquor  was  still  a  fanatic. 

The  hot  close  breath  of  the  ribald  crew  went  be 
fore  it  in  the  warm  summer  night,  the  torches  threw 
a  moving  yellow  glare  upon  faces  red  as  flame,  or 
ghastly  white,  and  here  and  there  the  small  crosses 
of  scarlet  cloth  fastened  to  the  men's  tunics  caught 
the  light  like  splashes  of  fresh  blood. 


VIA   CRUCIS  171 

Eleanor  drew  back  as  far  as  she  could  under  the 
doorway,  offended  in  her  sovereign  pride  and  dis 
gusted  as  gentlewomen  are  at  the  sight  of  drunken 
ness.  By  her  side,  Gilbert  drew  himself  up  as  if 
protesting  against  a  sacrilege  and  against  the  dese 
cration  of  his  holiest  thoughts.  He  knew  that  such 
men  would  often  be  as  riotous  again  before  they 
reached  Jerusalem,  and  that  it  would  be  absurd  to 
expect  anything  else.  But  meanwhile  he  realized 
what  a  little  more  of  disgust  would  be  enough  to 
make  him  hate  what  was  before  him.  For  a  moment 
he  forgot  the  Queen's  presence  at  his  side,  and  he 
closed  his  eyes  so  as  not  to  see  what  was  passing 
before  them. 

A  little  angry  sound,  that  was  neither  of  pain  nor 
of  fear,  roused  him  to  the  present.  A  man  with  a 
bad  face  and  a  shock  head  of  red  hair  had  fallen  out 
of  the  march  and  stood  unsteadily  before  the  Queen, 
plucking  at  her  mantle  in  the  hope  of  seeing  all  her 
face.  He  seemed  not  to  see  Gilbert,  and  there  was 
a  wicked  light  in  his  winy  eyes.  The  Queen  drew 
back,  and  used  her  hands  to  keep  her  mantle  and 
hood  close  about  her  ;  but  the  riot  pressed  onward 
and  forced  the  man  from  his  feet,  so  that  he  almost 
fell  against  her.  Gilbert  caught  him  by  the  neck 
with  his  hand ;  and  when  he  had  torn  the  cross  from 
his  shoulder,  he  struck  him  one  blow  that  flattened 
his  face  for  life.  Then  he  threw  him  down  into 
the  drunken  crowd,  a  bruised  and  senseless  thing, 
as  island  men  throw  a  dead  horse  from  the  cliff  into 
the  sea. 

In  a  moment  the  confusion  and  din  were  ten  times 


172  VIA   CRUCIS 

greater  than  before.  While  some  marched  on,  still 
yelling  the  tipsy  chorus,  others  stumbled  across  the 
body  of  their  unconscious  fellow  as  it  lay  in  the  way  ; 
two  had  been  struck  by  it  as  it  fell,  and  were  half 
stunned  ;  others  turned  back  to  see  the  cause  of  the 
trouble;  many  were  forced  to  the  ground,  impotently 
furious  with  drink,  and  not  a  few  were  trampled 
upon,  and  hurt,  and  burnt  by  their  own  torches. 

Eleanor  looked  down  upon  a  writhing  mass  of 
miserable  human  beings  who  were  blind  with  wine 
and  stupid  with  rage  against  the  unknown  thing  that 
had  made  them  fall.  She  shrank  to  Gilbert's  side, 
almost  clinging  to  him. 

"  We  cannot  stay  here,"  she  said.  "  You  must 
not  let  me  be  recognized  by  these  brutes." 

"  Keep  between  me  and  the  wall,  then, "  he  an 
swered  authoritatively. 

His  sword  was  in  his  hand  as  he  descended  the 
two  steps  to  the  level  of  the  street  and  began  to 
force  his  way  along  between  the  houses  and  the 
crowd.  It  was  not  easy  at  first.  One  sprang  at  him 
blindly  to  stop  him,  but  he  thrust  him  aside ;  an 
other  drew  his  dagger,  but  Gilbert  struck  him  on 
temple  and  jaw  with  his  flat  blade  so  that  he  fell  in 
a  heap  ;  and  presently  the  man  who  was  sober  was 
feared  by  the  drunken  men,  and  they  made  little  re 
sistance.  But  many  saw  by  the  torchlight  that  the 
hooded  figure  of  a  woman  was  gliding  along  beside 
him,  and  foul  jests  were  screamed  out,  with  howls  and 
catcalls,  so  that  the  clean  Norman  blood  longed  to 
turn  and  face  the  whole  throng  together  with  edge 
and  thrust,  to  be  avenged  of  insult.  Yet  Gilbert 


VIA   CRUCIS  173 

remembered  that  if  he  did  that,  he  might  be  slain, 
leaving  Eleanor  to  the  mercy  of  ruffians  who  would 
not  believe  that  she  was  the  Queen.  So  he  resigned 
himself  and  went  steadily  on  along  the  wall,  forcing 
his  opponents  out  of  his  way,  striking  them,  stun 
ning  them,  knocking  them  down  mercilessly,  but 
killing  none. 

The  time  had  been  short  from  the  beginning  of 
the  trouble  till  Gilbert  reached  the  turning  for  which 
he  was  making.  And  all  the  while  the  high,  brazen 
voice  was  chanting  the  words  of  the  Canticle, 
above  the  roaring  confusion.  When  Eleanor,  safe 
at  last,  slipped  into  the  shadows  beyond  the  corner, 
the  voice  was  singing,  "He  hath  visited  and  re 
deemed  his  people,"  and  far  up  the  street  the  red- 
cross  banner  was  waving  furiously  in  the  glare  of 
the  torchlight. 

As  Gilbert  sheathed  his  sword,  Eleanor  laid  her 
hand  on  his. 

"You  please  me,"  she  said;  and  though  there 
was  no  light,  he  knew  by  her  tone  that  she  was 
smiling.  "Thank  you,"  she  added  softly.  "Ask 
what  you  will,  it  is  yours. " 

In  the  dark  he  bent  down  and  kissed  the  hand 
that  held  him. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  I  thank  Heaven  that  I  have 
been  allowed  to  serve  a  woman  in  need." 

"  And  you  ask  nothing  of  me  ? "  There  was 
an  odd  little  chill  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke. 

Gilbert  did  not  answer  at  once,  for  he  was  uncer 
tain  whether  to  press  her  with  a  question  about  Bea 
trix,  or  to  ask  nothing. 


174  VIA   CRTTCIS 

"  If  I  asked  anything,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  should 
ask  that  I  might  understand  your  Grace,  and  why 
you  bade  me  come  in  haste  to  one  who  is  not  even 
with  you." 

They  were  within  a  few  steps  of  the  abbey,  and 
the  Queen  separated  a  little  from  him  and  walked 
nearer  to  the  wall.  Then  she  stopped  short. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  abruptly. 

Gilbert  came  close  to  her  and  stood  still  in  silence. 

"  Well  ?  "  She  uttered  the  single  word  with  a 
somewhat  cold  interrogation. 

"  Madam,"  said  Gilbert,  suddenly  determined  to 
know  the  truth,  "is  Beatrix  here  with  you  or  not? 
I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"  A  right  ?  "  There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone 
now,  but  Gilbert  was  not  awed  by  it. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "you  know  I  have." 

Without  a  word  Eleanor  left  him  and  walked 
along  the  wall  in  the  deep  shadow.  A  moment  later 
Gilbert  saw  two  forms  of  women  beside  the  taller 
figure  of  the  Queen.  He  made  a  step  forward, 
but  instantly  stopped  again,  realizing  that  he  could 
not  press  the  question  in  the  presence  of  her  ladies. 
She  had  doubtless  placed  them  there  when  she  had 
come  out,  to  wait  until  she  should  return. 

When  he  could  no  longer  see  her  in  the  gloom, 
he  turned  and  retraced  his  steps.  The  drunken  sol 
diers  were  gone  on  their  way  to  join  others  in  some 
tavern  beyond  the  church,  and  the  street  was  de 
serted.  The  moon,  long  past  the  full,  was  just  ris 
ing  above  the  hills  to  eastward,  and  shed  a  melancholy 
light  upon  the  straggling  village.  Resentful  of  the 


VIA   CRUCIS  175 

Queen's  mysterious  silence,  and  profoundly  sad  from 
the  impression  made  upon  him  by  the  drunken 
throng  through  which  he  had  forced  his  way,  Gilbert 
slowly  climbed  the  hill  and  went  back  to  his  lodg 
ing  near  the  church. 

He  spent  a  restless  night,  and  the  early  summer 
dawn  brought  him  to  his  open  window  with  that  de 
sire  which  every  man  feels,  after  a  troubled  day  and 
broken  rest,  to  see  the  world  fresh  and  clean  again, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  —  as  the  writing  is 
smoothed  from  the  wax  of  the  tablet  before  a  new 
message  can  be  written.  Gilbert  listened  to  the 
morning  sounds,  —  the  crowing  of  the  cocks,  the 
barking  of  the  dogs,  the  calls  of  peasants  greeting 
one  another,  —  and  he  breathed  the  cool  dawn  air 
gratefully,  without  trying  to  understand  what  the 
Queen  wanted  of  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  Crusade  became  a  fact  on  that  day  when  the 
sovereigns  of  France  and  Guienne  together  took  the 
scarlet  cross  from  Bernard's  hand.  But  all  was  not 
ready  yet.  Men  were  roused,  and  the  times  were 
ripe,  but  not  until  the  Abbot  of  Clairvaux  had  given 
Europe  the  final  impulse  could  the  armies  of  the 
King  and  of  the  Queen,  and  of  Conrad,  who 
was  never  to  be  crowned  Emperor  in  Rome,  begin 
the  march  of  desperate  toil  and  weariness  that 
lay  between  their  homes  and  their  death.  From 
V£zelay  the  master  preacher  and  inspirer  of  man 
kind  went  straight  to  Conrad's  court,  doing  the  will 
of  others  in  faith  and  without  misgiving  of  con 
science,  to  the  greater  glory  of  God,  yet  haunted  in 
sleep  and  waking  by  the  dim  ghosts  of  ruin  and 
defeat.  He  prophesied  not,  and  he  saw  no  visions, 
but  he  who  was  almost  the  world's  physician  in  his 
day  felt  fever  in  its  pulse  and  heard  distraction  in 
the  piercing  note  of  its  rallying-cry. 

There  were  multitudes  without  order,  there  were 
kings  without  authority,  there  were  leaders  more  fit 
to  follow  than  to  head  the  van.  And  always,  when 
he  had  preached  and  breathed  fire  through  the  dry 
stubble  of  men's  parched  hopes,  till  the  flame  was 
broad  and  high  and  resistless,  there  came  to  him,  in 
the  solitude  wherein  he  found  no  rest,  the  deadly 
memory  of  the  Hermit's  blasted  host,  overtaken, 

176 


VIA   CBUCIS  177 

overcome,  crushed  to  a  heap  of  bones  in  one  wild 
battle  with  the  Seljuk  horde. 

Many  a  time  he  told  himself  that  Peter  had  been 
no  soldier,  that  stronger  and  wiser  men  had  won 
what  he  had  failed  even  to  see,  and  that  the  memories 
of  Godfrey's  fearful  wrath,  of  Raymond's  brave  wis 
dom,  and  of  Tancred's  knightly  deeds  were  more  than 
half  another  victory  gained.  Yet  always,  too,  in  his 
deep  intuition  of  men's  limits,  he  felt  that  the 
soldiers  of  his  day  were  not  those  great  knights 
who  had  humbled  the  Emperor  of  the  East  and  taught 
a  lesson  of  fear  to  Kilidj  Arslan,  and  who  had  grasped 
the  flowers  of  Syria  and  Palestine  with  iron  hands. 
It  was  indeed  God's  will  that  a  great  host  should  go 
forth  again,  but  neither  Bernard  nor  any  other  man 
could  surely  tell  that  in  the  will  of  Heaven  there  was 
victory  too.  The  first  to  win  or  die  must  always  and 
ever  be  the  first  alone;  those  who  come  after  them 
imitate  them,  profit  by  them,  or  find  ruin  sown  in  the 
ravaged  track  of  conquest ;  do  what  they  may,  believe 
as  they  can,  be  their  faith  ever  so  high  and  pure,  they 
can  never  feel  the  splendid  exultation  of  the  soul  that 
has  found  out  some  godlike  and  untried  deed  to  do. 

The  times  had  changed  in  forty  years.  The  modern 
world  is  turned  by  the  interests  of  the  many,  but  the 
world  of  old  revolved  about  the  ambitions  of  the  few, 
and  the  transition  began  in  Bernard's  day  after  the 
furnace  of  the  eleventh  century  had  poured  its  molten 
material  out  upon  the  world  to  settle  and  cool  again 
in  the  castings  of  nations,  separate  and  individual. 
There  was  less  impulse,  more  rigidity;  here  and  there, 
there  was  more  strength,  but  everywhere  there  was 


178  VIA   CRUCIS 

less  fire ;  and  as  interests  grew  in  opposite  directions 
and  solidified  apart,  the  chances  of  any  universal 
rising  or  joint  battle  for  belief  grew  less.  Mankind 
moves  westward  with  the  sun;  men's  thoughts  turn 
back  to  the  bright  East,  the  source  of  every  faith  that 
moves  humanity;  at  first,  for  faith's  sake,  men  may 
retrace  their  migration  to  its  source  and  give  their 
own  blood  for  their  holy  places;  and  after  them  a 
generation  will  give  its  money  for  the  honour  of  its 
God ;  but  at  the  last,  and  surely,  comes  the  time  of 
memory's  fading,  the  winter  of  belief,  the  night 
of  faith's  day,  wherein  a  delicately  nurtured  and 
greedy  race  will  give  neither  gold  nor  blood,  but 
only  a  prayer  or  a  smile  for  the  hope  of  a  life  to 
come. 

Gilbert  Warde  began  the  great  march,  as  some 
others  did,  in  earnest  trust  and  belief.  He  had 
struck  blows  in  self-defence,  and  for  vengeance ;  he  had 
fought  once  in  Italy  for  sheer  love  of  fighting  and  the 
animal  joy  of  the  strong  northerner  in  cut  and  thrust, 
and  lately,  at  Ve*zelay,  he  had  fought  a  herd  of  drunken 
brutes  for  a  woman's  safety;  but  he  had  not  known 
the  false  and  fierce  delight  of  killing  men  to  please 
God.  That  was  still  before  him,  and  he  looked 
forward  to  it  with  that  half-deadly,  half-voluptuous 
longing  for  bloodshed  sanctioned  and  sanctified  by 
justice  or  religion,  which  is  at  the  main  root  of  every 
soldier's  nature,  let  men  say  what  they  will. 

When  the  Crusade  began  its  pilgrimage  of  arms, 
Gilbert  had  not  yet  seen  Beatrix,  nor  had  he  any 
distinct  proof,  even  by  the  Queen's  word,  that  she 
was  really  in  France.  Eleanor  herself  had  kept  him 


VIA   CKUCIS  179 

at  a  distance  during  the  months  that  elapsed  between 
Bernard's  preaching  at  Vdzelay  and  the  departure  of 
the  host;  and  hs  had  been  much  alone,  being  more 
knight  than  squire,  and  yet  not  having  knighthood, 
because  he  would  not  ask  it  of  the  Queen,  since  that 
would  have  seemed  like  begging  for  a  reward,  and  she 
did  not  offer  it  freely,  while  the  King,  of  course,  knew 
nothing  of  what  had  taken  place.  One  night,  as  he 
sat  alone  in  his  chamber,  a  man  entered,  cloaked  and 
hooded,  and  laid  before  him  something  heavy  wrapped 
in  a  silk  kerchief  that  might  have  been  a  woman's; 
and  the  man  went  out  quickly  before  Gilbert  had 
thought  of  asking  a  question.  In  the  kerchief  there 
was  a  purse  of  gold,  which  indeed  he  sorely  needed, 
and  yet  after  the  man  was  gone  he  sat  stupidly  staring 
at  the  contents  for  a  long  time.  At  first  it  seemed 
to  him  almost  certain  that  the  money  came  from  the 
Queen;  but  as  he  remembered  her  coldness  ever  since 
the  riot  at  Vdzelay,  and  recollected  how  many  times 
he  had  of  late  tried  to  attract  her  attention  without 
success,  the  conviction  lost  ground,  and  he  began  to 
believe  it  possible,  if  not  certain,  that  the  gift  had 
proceeded  from  another  source.  As  men  did  in  those 
days,  and  as  many  would  do  now,  he  might  have  taken 
thankfully  such  fortune  as  he  found  in  his  path,  not 
inquiring  too  closely  whether  he  had  deserved  it  01 
not.  But  yet  he  hesitated,  and  then,  turning  the  thing 
over,  he  saw  on  the  seal  the  device  of  the  Abbot  of 
Sheering,  and  he  thanked  Heaven  for  such  a  friend. 
And  again,  as  living  much  alone  made  him  more 
prone  to  self-questioning,  he  asked  himself  whether 
he  had  ever  loved  Beatrix  at  all.  He  heard  men 


180  VIA   CRUCIS 

talk  of  love,  he  heard  men  sing  the  love-songs  of  a 
passionate  and  earnest  age,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  could  nowhere  find  in  his  heart  or  soul  the  chords 
that  should  answer  directly  to  that  music.  In  him 
the  memory  was  a  treasure  rather  than  a  .power ;  and 
while  he  loved  to  dream  himself  again  through  the 
pleasant  passages  of  youth,  calling  up  the  kind  and 
girlish  face  that  was  always  near  him  in  shadow-land, 
and  although  the  image  came,  and  he  heard  the  voice 
and  could  almost  fancy  that  he  touched  the  little 
hand,  yet  it  was  all  soft  rather  than  vivid,  it  was 
full  of  tenderness  rather  than  of  a  cruel  and  insatiate 
longing,  it  was  a  satisfaction  rather  than  a  desire. 
And  therefore,  though  the  mere  name  of  Beatrix 
had  been  enough  to  bring  him  back  from  Rome,  and 
though  he  had  asked  many  questions  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  her,  he  attempted  nothing  daring  in  order 
to  be  assured  of  the  truth. 

Then  came  the  final  preparations,  the  testing  of 
armour,  the  providing  of  small  things  necessary  on 
the  march,  the  renewal  of  saddle  and  bridle,  and  all 
the  hundred  details  which  every  knight  and  soldier 
in  those  days  understood  and  cared  for  himself.  Then 
the  first  march  eastward  through  a  changing  country 
which  Gilbert  had  not  yet  seen,  the  encampment 
upon  the  heights  about  Metz,  the  days  spent  in 
roaming  over  the  old  city,  long  ago  a  fortress  of 
the  Romans  —  and  during  all  that  time  Gilbert 
scarcely  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Queen,  though  he 
saw  the  King  often  at  religious  functions  in  the 
lately  built  church  of  Saint  Vincent;  for  as  yet  the 
great  cathedral  was  not  even  begun.  Last  of  all,  on 


VIA   CRUCIS  181 

the  morning  of  the  final  departure  the  royal  armies 
assembled  before  dawn  at  the  church,  the  court 
and  the  greater  knights  within,  the  vast  concourse 
of  men-at-arms  and  footmen  and  followers  in  the 
open  air  outside.  But  Gilbert  passed  boldly  in 
among  the  high  nobles  of  France  and  Guienne,  and 
knelt  with  them  in  the  dim  nave,  where  little  oil- 
lamps  hung  under  the  high  vaults,  and  many  candles 
burned  upon  the  altars  in  the  side-chapels,  shedding  a 
soft  light  on  dark  faces  and  mailed  breasts  and  rich 
mantles.  Out  of  the  dusky  choir  rang  the  high  plain- 
chant  of  monks  and  singing-boys,  from  the  altar 
the  bishop's  voice  alone  intoned  the  Preface  of  the 
Holy  Cross,  and  presently,  in  the  deep  silence,  the 
Sacred  Host  was  lifted  high,  and  then  the  golden 
chalice. 

The  King  and  Queen  knelt  side  by  side  to  receive 
the  holy  bread,  and  after  them  the  nobles  and  the 
knights  in  turn  went  up  to  communicate,  in  long  pro 
cession,  while  the  day  dawned  through  the  clerestory 
windows  high  overhead,  and  the  King  and  Queen  knelt 
all  the  time  with  folded  hands  till  the  mass  was  over. 
Then  at  last  the  standard  of  the  cross  was  brought 
forth,  with  the  great  standards  of  France  and  of  Gui 
enne  —  the  banner  of  Saint  George  and  the  Dragon, 
which  Eleanor  was  to  hand  down  to  her  sons  and  sons' 
sons,  kings  of  England,  for  generations ;  and  the  choir 
began  to  sing  "  Vexilla  regis  prodeunt "  ("  The  stand 
ards  of  the  king  go  forth  ").  So  all  that  great  and  noble 
host  went  out  in  state,  chanting  the  lofty  hymn  that 
rang  with  tones  of  victory,  while  among  cypress 
groves  on  far  Asian  hillsides  the  ravens  waited  for 


182  VIA   CRUCIS 

the  coming  feast  of  Christian  flesh,  and  the  circling 
kite  scanned  the  broad  earth  and  dancing  water 
for  the  living  things  that  were  to  feed  him  full  of 
death. 

At  last  the  worst  of  the  fearfui  march  was  over, 
and  the  Crusaders  lay  before  Constantinople,  travel- 
stained,  half -starved  and  wan,  but  at  rest.  The  great 
open  space  of  undulating  ground  before  the  wall  that 
joined  the  Golden  Horn  with  the  Sea  of  Marmara 
was  their  camping-ground,  and  countless  tents  were 
pitched  in  uneven  lines  as  far  as  one  could  see.  The 
King,  and  Queen  Eleanor,  and  a  few  of  the  greater 
nobles  had  entered  the  city  and  were  lodged  in  its 
palaces  about  the  Emperor's  gardens,  but  all  the  rest 
remained  without.  For  the  German  hosts  had  been 
first  to  reach  the  Bosphorus,  and  where  they  had 
passed  they  had  left  a  broad  track  of  dust  and  ashes 
and  a  great  terror  upon  all  living  things.  Even  in 
Constantinople  itself,  where  the  Emperor  had  re 
ceived  them  as  guests,  they  had  robbed  and  ravaged 
and  burned  as  if  they  had  been  in  an  enemy's  country ; 
and  when  at  last  he  had  persuaded  them  to  cross  over 
to  Asia,  they  had  left  the  great  city  half  sacked  be 
hind  them,  so  that  the  Emperor's  heart  was  resent 
fully  hardened  against  every  man  who  bore  the 
cross. 

And  indeed  he  had  been  long-suffering,  for  many  in 
his  place  would  have  borne  less ;  and  if  he  persuaded 
the  Crusaders  on  false  pretences  to  leave  his  capital 
and  push  on  into  Asia,  he  did  so  as  the  only 
means  of  saving  his  own  people  from  robbery  and 
violence. 


VIA   CRUCIS  183 

Though  the  King  and  the  court  only  were  lodged 
within  the  walls,  while  the  main  force  of  fighting 
men  was  encamped  without,  )Tet  the  guard  at  the 
gates  was  not  over-strictly  kept,  and  many  knights 
went  in  with  their  squires  to  see  the  great  sights 
and,  if  possible,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Emperor 
himself.  Gilbert  did  like  the  rest  and  gave  the  cap 
tain  of  the  Second  Military  Gate  a  piece  of  silver 
to  go  in. 

At  the  first  glance  he  saw  that  there  was  little 
safety  for  any  stranger  who  should  chance  to  wander 
from  the  chief  streets.  Safe-conduct  and  security 
had  been  proclaimed  for  every  soldier  who  wore  a 
cross,  and  the  fear  of  a  cruel  death  was  enough  to 
enforce  the  imperial  edict  wherever  watchmen  or 
soldiers  were  present  to  remind  men  of  it;  but  there 
was  no  rigorous  counter-rule  on  the  Crusaders'  side, 
and  if  the  rough  Burgundian  men-at-arms  and  the 
wild  riders  of  Gascony  who  were  in  Eleanor's  train 
had  been  admitted  in  numbers,  they  would  hardly 
have  withheld  their  hands  from  such  desirable 
things  as  they  chanced  to  find  in  their  way. 
The  Greeks  stood  watching  in  their  doorways  and 
their  women  sat  huddled  together  in  the  small  low 
balconies  above,  or  at  narrow  windows  whence  they 
could  see  the  street.  Whenever  a  party  of  knights 
appeared,  the  men  withdrew  within  their  houses, 
the  women  were  out  of  sight  in  a  moment,  and 
within  the  windows  the  curtains  were  closely 
drawn.  Looking  to  right  and  left  for  the  sign 
of  a  friendly  tavern  or  the  more  desirable  attrac 
tion  of  henna-dyed  hair  and  painted  cheeks  and 


184  VIA   CRUCtS 

darkened  eyes,  the  strangers  saw  nothing  on  each 
side  of  the  street  but  blank  houses  and  closed  doors. 
But  when  they  had  passed,  the  curtains  were  parted, 
the  doors  were  ajar  again,  and  curious  eyes  looked 
after  the  big  mailed  figures,  the  gaudy  cloaks,  and 
the  enormous  cross-hilted  swords  of  the  Frenchmen. 
Of  the  poorer  people  in  the  streets  and  those  whose 
business  kept  them  abroad  on  that  day,  the  men 
scowled  resentfully  at  the  intruders  and  the  women 
drew  their  veils  closely  across  their  faces.  For 
although  the  French  were  gentler  and  less  uncouth 
to  see  than  the  rough  Germans  who  had  wrecked  the 
city  a  few  weeks  earlier,  the  Greeks  were  past  trust 
ing  any  one,  and  looked  upon  all  strangers  with  like 
fear  and  ever-increasing  distrust. 

When  he  was  within  the  gate,  Gilbert  saw  three 
broad  roads  before  him,  stretching  downward  from 
the  higher  land  on  which  the  city  wall  was  built. 
Vast  and  magnificent,  Constantinople  lay  at  his  feet, 
a  rich  disorder  of  palaces  and  churches  and  towers. 
On  the  left,  the  quiet  waters  of  the  Golden  Horn 
made  a  broad,  blue  path  to  meet  the  Bosphorus  in 
the  hazy  distance  before  him ;  on  the  right,  the  Sea 
of  Marmara  was  dazzling  white  under  the  morning 
sun,  where  its  mirror-like  reflections  could  be  seen 
between  the  towers  of  the  sea-wall.  The  air  was 
full  of  light  and  colour,  and  the  smell  of  late  roses 
and  autumn  fruits  and  the  enchantment  of  sights 
altogether  new  took  hold  of  the  young  man's  senses. 
Far  before  him  and,  as  it  seemed,  near  the  end 
of  the  central  street,  a  dome  rose  above  the 
level  of  the  x  surrounding  city,  raising  its  golden 


VIA   CETJCIS  185 

cross  to  the  deep  sky.  Without  hesitation  Gil 
bert  chose  that  road  and  followed  it  nearly  a  full 
hour  before  he  stood  at  the  gate  of  Saint  Sophia's 
church. 

He  stood  still  and  looked  up,  he  had  heard  much 
of  the  great  cathedral  and  had  wished  to  see  it  and 
the  treasures  it  contained;  but  now,  by  an  impulse 
which  he  followed  without  attempting  to  understand 
it,  instead  of  going  in  lie  turned  on  his  heel  and 
went  away.  He  said  to  himself  that  there  would  be 
plenty  of  time  for  visiting  the  church,  and  possibly 
the  idea  of  leaving  the  beautiful  daylight  for  the 
dark  aisles  and  chapels  of  an  ancient  cathedral  was 
distasteful.  In  his  change  of  intention  there  seemed 
not  to  be  that  little  element  of  chance  that  makes  a 
man  turn  to  the  right  rather  than  to  the  left  when  there 
is  no  choice  of  ways.  He  went  on  skirting  the  but 
tresses  and  outbuildings  and  following  the  steep 
descent  by  the  northwest  side  of  the  cathedral. 
Here,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  the  life  of  the  city 
going  on  as  usual,  and  as  yet  none  of  the  Crusaders 
had  found  their  way  thither.  The  tide  of  business 
at  that  hour  set  toward  the  great  markets  and  ware 
houses,  to  the  north  of  which  one  of  the  Emperor's 
smaller  palaces  was  built  amid  shady  gardens  that  ran 
down  to  the  water's  edge.  Gilbert  was  carried  along 
by  the  stream  of  hurrying  men,  who,  seeing  that  he 
was  a  stranger  and  alone,  jostled  him  with  little  cere 
mony.  He  had  too  much  wit  and  perhaps  too  much 
self-respect,  to  rouse  a  street  brawl  on  his  own  behalf, 
and  when  any  one  ran  against  him  with  unnecessary 
roughness  he  contented  himself  with  stiffening  his 


186  VIA   CRUCIS 

back  and  holding  his  own  in  passive  resistance.  He 
had  reached  his  full  strength  and  was  a  match  for 
many  little  Greeks,  yet  the  annoyance  was  distasteful 
to  him,  and  he  was  glad  to  find  himself  pushed  into 
a  narrow  lane  between  high  walls  and  crossed  by  a 
low  covered  bridge;  and  at  the  end,  under  over 
hanging  branches,  he  saw  the  blue  light  of  the  sea. 
He  followed  the  byway  down  to  the  water,  sup 
posing  that  there  must  be  some  beach  or  open 
space  there,  where  he  might  be  alone.  But,  to 
his  surprise,  both  walls  were  built  out  on  little 
piers  into  the  sea,  shutting  off  the  view  on  each  side. 
Looking  straight  before  him,  he  saw  the  trees  and 
white  houses  of  distant  Chalcedon,  within  the  Sea  of 
Marmara,  but  Chrysopolis  was  hidden  on  the  left. 
The  lane  ended  in  a  little  beach,  some  six  feet  wide, 
and  a  skiff  lay  there  with  a  pair  of  oars,  half  out  of 
water,  and  made  fast  by  a  chain  to  a  ring  in  the 
masonry.  A  cool  breeze  drew  in  through  the  nar 
row  entrance,  and  the  clear  salt  water  lapped  the 
clean,  sand  softly,  and  splashed  under  the  stern  and 
along  the  wales  of  the  half-beached  boat. 

Gilbert  rested  one  hand  against  the  wall  and  looked 
out,  breathing  the  bright  sea  air  with  a  sort  of 
voluptuous  enjoyment,  and  letting  his  thoughts 
wander  as  they  would.  The  march  had  been  long 
and  full  of  hardships,  mingled  often  with  real  bodily 
suffering,  and  those  who  had  escaped  without  disease 
were  reckoned  fortunate.  The  war  was  still  before 
them,  but  no  imaginable  combat  'with  men  could 
be  compared  with  the  long  struggle  for  existence 
through  which  the  Crusaders  had  won  their  way 


VIA   CBTJCIS  187 

to  Constantinople.  It  seemed  as  if  the  worst 
were  altogether  past  and  as  if  rest-time  had  come 
already. 

In  the  cool  and  shady  retreat  from  the  crowd  to 
which  Gilbert's  footsteps  had  led  him,  an  Italian 
might  have  lain  dreaming  half  the  day,  and  an 
Oriental  would  have  sat  down  to  withdraw  himself 
from  the  material  tedium  of  life  in  the  superior 
atmosphere  of  kSf.  But  Gilbert  was  chilled  to  a 
different  temper  by  the  colder  and  harder  life  of  the 
North,  and  the  springs  of  his  nature  could  not  be  so 
easily  and  wholly  relaxed.  In  a  few  moments  he 
grew  restless,  stood  upright  and  began  to  look 
about  him,  letting  his  hand  fall  by  his  side  from  its 
hold  on  the  wall.  The  walls  were  solid  from  end  to 
end  of  the  narrow  lane,  and  not  less  than  three  times 
a  man's  height.  The  stones  of  the  masonry  were 
damp  for  six  or  seven  feet  above  the  ground,  showing 
that  the  earth  was  at  a  higher  level  behind  them 
than  in  the  lane,  and  the  trees  of  which  the  branches 
overhung  the  way  were  of  the  sort  found  in  Eastern 
gardens,  a  cedar  of  Lebanon  on  the  one  side,  a  syca 
more  on  the  other ;  and  with  the  light  breeze  there  ] 
came  to  Gilbert's  nostrils  the  aromatic  scent  of  young 
oranges  still  green  on  the  trees.  It  flashed  upon  him 
that  the  lane  divided  the  imperial  gardens  and  that  the 
walls  were  built  out  into  the  water  in  order  to  prevent 
intrusion.  One  end  of  the  boat's  chain  was  shackled 
to  a  ring-bolt  in  the  bows,  and  the  other  was  made  fast 
to  the  ring  in  the  wall  by  one  of  those  rude  iron  pad 
locks  which  had  been  used  in  Asia  since  the  times  of 
Alexander.  Gilbert  had  heard  wonderful  tales  of  the 


.188  VIA   CEUCIS 

gardens  at  Constantinople,  and  he  resented  the  idea  of 
being  so  near  them  and  yet  so  effectually  excluded. 
He  tried  to  wrench  the  boat's  chain  from  the  bows, 
and,  failing,  he  tried  to  force  the  lock,  but  the  iron  was 
solid  and  the  lock  was  good ;  moreover,  the  chain  was 
too  short  to  allow  the  skiff  to  float  to  the  end  of  the 
wall,  if  he  had  launched  it.  The  idea  of  seeing  into 
the  garden  became  a  determination  as  soon  as  he 
found  that  there  were  serious  obstacles  in  the  way, 
and  by  the  time  he  had  persuaded  himself  that  the 
boat  could  not  help  him  he  would  have  readily  risked 
life  and  limb  for  his  fancy.  A  few  moments'  reflec 
tion  showed  him,  however,  that  there  need  be  no  great 
danger  in  the  undertaking,  for  the  defence  had  a  weak 
point.  The  foundations  on  which  the  walls  stood 
were  above  water  by  several  inches  and  were  wide 
enough  to  give  him  a  foothold  if  he  could  only  keep 
himself  upright  against  the  flat  surface.  The  latter 
difficulty  could  easily  be  overcome  by  using  one  of 
the  oars  from  the  boat,  and  he  began  to  attempt  the 
passage  at  once,  cautiously  putting  one  foot  before 
the  other  and  steadying  himself  with  the  oar  against 
the  opposite  wall.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  to 
get  into  the  Emperor's  gardens  by  stealth  might  be 
looked  upon  as  a  serious  matter.  In  a  few  moments 
he  had  reached  the  end  and  was  getting  back  to  the 
land  on  the  other  side. 

From  the  water's  edge  three  little  terraces  led  up 
like  steps  to  the  level  of  the  garden,  where  the  trees 
grew  thick  and  dark  ;  and,  although  it  was  early 
autumn,  each  terrace  was  covered  with  flowers  of  a 
different  hue  — pink  and  soft  yellow  and  pale  blue. 


VIA   CRUCIS  189 

Gilbert  had  never  seen  anything  made  to  grow  in 
such  orderly  profusion,  and  when  he  reached  the  top 
by  narrow  steps  built  against  the  wall,  he  found  him 
self  treading  on  a  fine  white  gravel  surface  on  which 
not  even  a  single  dead  leaf  had  been  allowed  to  lie, 
and  which  extended  some  thirty  yards  inwards  under 
the  trees  to  a  straight  bank  of  moss  that  had  a  sheen 
like  green  velvet  where  the  sun  fell  upon  it  through 
the  parted  leaves  overhead.  Very  far  away  between 
the  trunks  of  the  trees  there  was  the  gleam  of  white 
marble  walls. 

Gilbert  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  walked  slowly 
forward  toward  the  bank.  As  yet  he  had  seen  no 
trace  of  any  living  thing  in  the  garden,  but  as  he 
advanced  and  changed  his  position  he  noticed  a  small 
dash  of  colour,  like  the  corner  of  a  dark  blue  cloak, 
beside  the  trunk  of  one  of  the  larger  trees.  Some  one 
was  sitting  on  the  other  side,  and  he  moved  cau 
tiously  and  almost  noiselessly  till  he  saw  that  the 
person  was  a  lady,  seated  on  the  ground  and  absorbed 
in  a  book.  He  did  not  remember  to  have  seen  more 
than  two  or  three  women  reading  in  all  his  life, 
and  one  of  them  was  Queen  Eleanor;  another  was 
Beatrix,  'who,  as  a  lonely  child  in  the  solitude 
of  her  father's  castle,  had  acquired  some  learning 
from  the  chaplain,  and  delighted  in  spelling  out  the 
few  manuscripts  in  her  father's  possession. 

Gilbert  Warde  was  as  much  a  born  sportsman  as 
he  was  a  fighter,  and  he  had  stalked  the  fallow-deer 
in  Stortford  woods  since  he  had  been  old  enough  to 
draw  an  arrow's  head  to  his  finger. 

Step  by  step,  from  tree  to  tree,  with  cat-like  tread, 


190  VIA  CRUCIS 

he  came  nearer,  amused  by  an  almost  boyish  pleasure 
in  his  own  skill.  Once  the  lady  moved,  but  she 
looked  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  then  at  last, 
when  he  was  within  a  ^jzen  yards  of  her,  half- 
sheltered  by  a  slender  stem,  she  looked  straight  across 
toward  him,  and  the  light  fell  upon  her  face.  He 
knew  that  she  saw  him,  but  he  could  not  have  moved 
from  the  spot  if  it  had  been  to  save  his  life,  for  the 
lady  was  Beatrix  herself.  In  spite  of  a  separation 
that  had  lasted  two  years,  in  spite  of  her  final  growth 
out  of  early  girlhood,  he  knew  that  he  was  not  mis~ 
taken,  and  her  dark  eyes  were  looking  straight  into 
his,  telling  him  that  she  knew  him,  too.  There  was 
no  fear  in  them,  and  she  showed  no  surprise,  but  as 
she  looked,  a  very  lovely  smile  came  into  her  sad  face. 
He  was  so  glad  to  see  her  that  he  thought  little  or 
not  at  all  of  her  looks.  But  she  was  not  beautiful 
in  any  common  sense,  and,  saving  the  expression  in 
her  face,  she  could  hardly  have  passed  for  pretty  in 
the  presence  of  Queen  Eleanor  and  of  most  of  her 
three  hundred  ladies.  Her  forehead  was  round  and 
full  rather  than  classic,  and  the  thick  dark  eyebrows 
were  somewhat  rough  and  irregular,  turning  slightly 
upwards  as  they  approached  each  other,  a  peculi 
arity  which  gave  an  almost  pathetic  expression  to  the 
eyes  themselves ;  the  small  and  by  no  means  perfectly 
shaped  nose  was  sensitively  drawn  at  the  nostrils, 
but  had  also  an  odd  look  of  independence  and  in 
quiry;  and  the  wide  and  shapely  lips  were  more  apt 
to  smile  with  a  half-humorous  sadness  than  to  part 
with  laughter.  Small  and  well-modelled  ears  were 
half  covered  by  dark  brown  hair  that  had  been  almost 


VIA   CRUCIS  191 

black  in  childhood,  and  which  fell  to  her  shoulders 
in  broad  waves,  in  the  fashion  used  by  the  Queen. 
While  Gilbert  looked  and  remained  motionless,  the 
girl  rose  lightly  to  her  feet,  and  he  saw  that  she  was 
shorter  than  he  had  expected,  but  slight  and  delicately 
made.  With  one  hand  he  could  have  lifted  her  from 
the  ground,  with  two  he  could  have  held  her  in  the 
air  like  a  child.  She  was  not  the  Beatrix  he  remem 
bered,  though  he  had  known  her  instantly;  she  was 
not  the  solemn,  black-eyed  maiden  of  whom  he  some 
times  dreamed;  she  was  a  being  full  of  individual 
life  and  thought,  quick,  sensitive,  perhaps  capri 
cious,  and  charming,  if  she  could  charm  at  all,  by  a 
spell  that  was  quite  her  own. 

Half-frightened  at  last  by  his  motionless  attitude 
and  his  silence,  she  called  him  by  name. 

"  Gilbert !     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

He  shook  his  broad  shoulders  as  if  waking  to  con 
sciousness,  and  the  smile  in  her  face  was  reflected 
in  his  own. 

The  voice,  at  least,  had  not  changed,  and  the  first 
tones  called  up  the  long-cherished  record  of  childish 
years ;  for  scent  and  sound  can  span  the  wastes  of 
years  and  the  deserts  of  separation,  when  sight  is 
dull  and  even  touch  is  unresponsive. 

Gilbert  came  forward,  holding  out  both  hands; 
and  Beatrix  took  them  when  he  was  close  to  her, 
and  held  them  in  hers.  The  little  tears  had  started 
in  her  eyes,  that  were  glad  as  flowers  at  dewfall,  and 
in  her  very  clear,  pale  cheeks  the  colour  lightened 
like  the  dawn. 

The  man's  face  was  quiet,  and  his  heart  was  in  no 


192  TIA   CRUCIS 

haste,  though  he  was  so  glad.  He  drew  her  toward 
him,  as  he  had  often  done,  and  she  seemed  light  and 
little  in  his  hands.  But  when  he  would  have  kissed 
her  cheek  as  in  other  times,  she  turned  in  his  hold 
like  a  bow  that  is  bent  but  not  strung,  and  straight 
ened  herself  again  quickly;  and  something  tingled 
in  him  suddenly,  and  he  tried  hard  to  kiss  her;  yet 
when  he  saw  that  he  must  hurt  her,  he  let  her  go, 
and  laughed  oddly.  Her  blush  deepened  to  red  and 
then  faded  all  at  once,  and  she  turned  her  face 
away. 

"How  is  it  that  I  have  never  found  you  before 
now?"  Gilbert  asked  softly.  "Were  you  with  the 
Queen  at  Vdzelay?  Have  you  been  with  her  on  all 
the  march?" 

"Yes." 

"And  did  you  not  know  that  I  was  with  the 
army?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  could  not  send  you  any  word.  She 
would  not  let  me."  The  girl  looked  round  quickly 
in  sudden  apprehension.  "If  she  should  find  you 
here,  it  would  be  ill  for  you,"  she  added,  with  a 
gesture  of  pushing  him  away. 

But  he  showed  that  he  would  not  go  away. 

"The  Queen  has  always  been  kind  to  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  not  afraid. " 

Beatrix  would  not  turn  to  him,  and  was  silent. 
He  was  not  timid,  but  words  did  not  come  easily 
just  then;  therefore,  manlike,  he  tried  to  draw  her 
to  him  again.  But  she  put  away  his  hand  somewhat 
impatiently  and  shook  her  head,  whereat  he  felt  the 
tingling  warmth  in  his  blood  again.  Then  he  remem 


VIA   CRUCIS  193 

bered  how  he  had  felt  the  same  thing  on  that  night 
in  Vdzelay,  when  the  Queen  had  pressed  his  arm 
unexpectedly,  and  once  before,  when  she  had  kissed 
him  in  the  tennis-court,  and  he  was  angry  with  him 
self. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let  us  sit  down  and  talk. 
There  are  two  years  between  us." 

She  led  the  way  back  in  the  direction  whence  he 
had  come,  and  when  they  had  reached  the  bank  of 
moss  she  seated  herself  and  looked  out  under  the 
trees,  at  the  blue  water.  He  stood  still  a  moment  as 
though  hesitating,  and  then  sat  down  beside  her, 
but  not  quite  close  to  her,  as  he  would  have  done  in 
earlier  years. 

"Yes,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "there  are  two  years 
between  us.  We  must  bridge  them." 

"And  between  what  we  were  and  what  we  are 
there  is  something  more  than  time,"  she  answered, 
still  looking  far  away. 

"Yes." 

He  was  silent,  and  he  thought  of  his  mother,  and 
he  knew  that  Beatrix  was  thinking  of  her  too,  and 
of  her  own  father.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that 
Beatrix  could  resent  the  marriage  as  bitterly  as  he, 
nor  that  she  could  in  any  way  be  as  great  a  loser  by 
it  as  he  was. 

"Tell  me  why  you  left  England,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  And  you  ?     Why  did  you  leave  your  home  ?  " 

She  turned  to  him,  and  the  little  melancholy  smile 
that  was  characteristic  of  her  was  in  her  face. 

"I  had  no  home  left,"  he  answered  gravely. 

"And  had  I?     How  could  I  live  with  them?    No 


194  VIA   CRUCIS 

—  how  could  I  have  lived  with  them,  knowing  what 
I  did,  even  had  they  been  ever  so  kind?  " 

"  Were  they  unkind  to  you  ?  " 

Gilbert's  deep  eyes  grew  suddenly  pale  as  they 
turned  to  hers,  and  his  words  came  slowly  and 
distinctly,  like  the  first  drops  of  a  thunder  shower. 

"Not  at  first.  They  came  to  the  castle  where  I 
had  been  left  all  alone  after  they  were  married,  and 
my  father  told  me  that  I  must  call  the  Lady  Goda 
my  mother.  She  kissed  me  as  if  she  were  fond  of 
me  for  his  sake." 

Gilbert  started  a  little,  and  his  teeth  set  together, 
while  he  clasped  his  hands  over  one  knee  and  waited 
to  hear  more.  Beatrix  understood  his  look,  and  knew 
that  she  had  unintentionally  hurt  him.  She  laid  her 
hand  softly  upon  his  arm. 

"  Forgive  me, "  she  said.  "  I  should  not  talk  about 
it." 

"No,"  he  said  harshly,  "go  on!  I  feel  nothing  ; 
I  am  past  feeling  there.  They  were  kind  to  you  at 
first,  you  said." 

"Yes, "she  continued,  looking  at  him  sideways. 
"  They  were  kind  when  they  remembered  to  be,  but 
they  often  forgot.  And  then,  it  was  hard  to  treat 
her  with  respect  when  I  came  to  know  how  she  had 
got  your  inheritance  for  my  father,  and  how  she 
had  let  you  leave  England  to  wander  about  the 
world.  And  then,  last  year,  it  seemed  to  me  all  at 
once  that  I  was  a  woman  and  could  not  bear  it  any 
longer,  for  I  saw  that  she  hated  me.  And  when  a 
son  was  born  to  them,  my  father  turned  against  me 
and  threatened  that  he  would  send  me  to  a  nunnery. 


VIA   CRUCIS  195 

So  I  fled,  one  day  when  my  father  had  ridden  to 
Stoke  and  the  Lady  Goda  was  sleeping  in  her  cham 
ber.  A  groom  and  my  handmaid  helped  me  and 
went  with  me,  for  my  father  would  have  hanged 
them  if  they  had  stayed  behind;  so  I  took  refuge  with 
the  Empress  Maud  at  Oxford,  and  soon  there  came 
a  letter  from  the  Queen  of  France  to  the  Empress, 
asking  that  I  might  be  sent  to  the  French  court  if  I 
would.  And  something  of  the  reason  for  the  Queen's 
wish  I  can  guess.  But  not  all." 

She  ceased,  and  for  some  moments  Gilbert  sat  silent 
beside  her,  but  not  as  if  he  had  nothing  to  say.  He 
seemed  rather  to  be  checking  himself  lest  he  should 
say  too  much. 

"So  you  were  at  Ve*zelay,"  he  said  at  last;  "yet  I 
sought  your  face  everywhere,  and  I  could  not  see  you.  "^ 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  asked  Beatrix. 

"The  Queen  had  written  to  me,"  he  answered; 
"so  I  came  back  from  Rome." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  young  girl,  quietly. 

"What  is  it  that  you  understand?" 

"I  understand  why  she  has  prevented  me  from 
seeing  you,  when  you  have  been  near  me  for  almost 
a  year." 

She  checked  a  little  sigh,  and  then  looked  out  at 
the  water  again. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  Gilbert  answered,  with  a  short 
laugh. 

Beatrix  laughed  too,  but  in  a  different  tone. 

"  How  dull  you  are !  "  she  cried.  Gilbert  looked 
at  her  quickly,  for  no  man  likes  to  be  told  that  he  is 
dull,  by  any  woman,  old  or  young. 


196  VIA   CRUCIS 

"Am  I?  It  seems  to  me  that  you  do  not  put 
things  very  clearly." 

Beatrix  was  evidently  not  persuaded  that  he 
was  in  earnest,  for  she  looked  at  him  long  and 
gravely. 

"  We  have  not  met  for  so  long,"  she  said,  "  that  I 
am  not  quite  sure  of  you." 

She  threw  her  head  back  and  scrutinized  his  face 
with  half-closed  lids  ;  and  about  her  lips  there 
was  an  attempt  to  smile,  that  came  and  went  fit- 
fully. 

"  Besides,"  she  added,  as  she  turned  away  at  last, 
"  you  could  not  possibly  be  so  simple  as  that." 

"  By  '  simple,'  do  you  mean  foolish,  or  do  you 
mean  plain  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  she  answered  without  looking  at  him. 
"  I  mean  innocent." 

"  Oh  !  " 

Gilbert  uttered  the  ejaculation  in  a  tone  expressive 
rather  of  bewilderment  than  of  surprise.  He  did 
not  in  the  least  understand  what  she  meant.  Seeing 
that  she  did  not  enlighten  him,  and  feeling  uncom 
fortable,  it  was  quite  natural  that  he  should  attack 
her  on  different  ground. 

"  You  have  changed,"  he  said  coldly.  "  I  suppose 
you  have  grown  up,  as  you  call  it." 

For  a  moment  Beatrix  said  nothing,  but  her  lips 
trembled  as  if  she  were  trying  not  to  smile  at  what 
he  said  ;  and  suddenly  she  could  resist  no  longer,  and 
laughed  at  him  outright. 

"  I  cannot  say  the  same  for  you,"  she  retorted 
presently  ;  "  you  are  certainly  not  grown  up  yet  1  " 


VIA  CKUCIS  197 

This  pleased  Gilbert  even  less  than  what  she 
had  said  before,  for  he  was  still  young  enough 
to  wish  himself  older.  He  therefore  answered  her 
laughter  with  a  look  of  grave  contempt.  She  was 
woman  enough  to  see  that  the  time  had  come  to 
take  him  by  surprise,  with  a  view  of  ascertaining 
the  truth. 

"  How  long  has  the  Queen  loved  you  ?  "  she  asked 
suddenly ;  and  while  she  seemed  not  to  be  looking  at 
him,  she  was  watching  every  line  in  his  face,  and 
would  have  noticed  the  movement  of  an  eyelash  if 
there  had  been  nothing  else  to  note.  But  Gilbert 
was  really  surprised. 

"The  Queen!  The  Queen  love  me!  Are  you 
beside  yourself  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  the  young  girl,  quietly ; 
"  it  is  the  talk  of  the  court.  They  say  that  the  King 
is  jealous  of  you." 

She  laughed  —  gayly,  this  time,  for  she  saw  that 
he  really  had  had  no  idea  of  the  truth.  Then  she 
grew  grave  all  at  once,  for  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  perhaps  made  a  mistake  in  putting  the  idea 
into  his  head. 

"At  least,"  she  said,  as  if  correcting  herself, 
"  that  is  what  they  used  to  say  last  year." 

"You  are  quite  mad,"  he  said,  without  a  smile. 
"  I  cannot  imagine  how  such  an  absurd  idea  could 
have  suggested  itself  to  you.  In  the  first  place,  the 
Queen  would  never  look  at  a  poor  Englishman  like 
me  —  " 

"I  defy  any  woman  not  to  look  at  you,"  said 
Beatrix. 


198  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked,  with  curiosity. 

"  Is  this  more  simplicity,  or  is  it  more  dulness  ?  " 

"  Both,  I  suppose,"  answered  Gilbert,  in  a  hurt 
tone.  "  You  are  very  witty. " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Wit  is  quite  another 
thing." 

Then  her  tone  changed  and  her  face  softened 
wonderfully  as  she  took  his  hand. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  do  not  believe  it,"  she  said; 
"  and  I  am  glad  that  you  do  not  care  to  be  thought 
handsome.  But  I  think  it  is  true  that  the  Queen 
loves  you,  and  if  she  sent  to  England  for  me,  that 
was  merely  in  order  to  bring  you  back  to  France. 
Of  course  she  could  not  know  —  " 

She  checked  herself,  and  he,  of  course,  asked  what 
she  had  meant  to  say,  and  insisted  upon  knowing. 

"The  Queen  could  not  know,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  that  we  should  seem  so  strange  to  each  other  when 
we  met." 

"  Do  I  seem  so  strange  to  you  ? "  he  asked,  in  a 
sorrowful  tone. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  the  other  way.  I  can 
see  that  you  expected  me  to  be  very  different." 

"  Indeed,  I  did  not,"  answered  Gilbert,  with  some 
indignation.  "  At  least,"  he  added  hastily,  "  if  I 
thought  anything  about  it,  I  did  not  expect  that 
you  would  be  half  so  pretty,  or  half  —  " 

"  If  you  thought  anything  about  it,"  laughed 
Beatrix,  interrupting  him. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  justly  annoyed 
by  his  own  lack  of  tact. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  of  course  I  do  —  that  is  the  trouble." 


VIA   CRUCIS  199 

"  If  we  are  going-  to  do  nothing  but  quarrel,"  he 
said,  "  I  am  almost  sorry  that  I  came  here." 

Again  her  tone  changed,  but  this  time  she  did  not 
touch  his  hand.  Hearing  her  voice,  he  expected 
that  she  would,  and  he  was  oddly  disappointed  that 
she  did  not. 

"  Nothing  could  make  me  sorry  that  you  found 
me,"  she  answered.  "  You  do  not  know  how  hard 
I  have  tried  to  see  you  all  through  this  last  year  !  " 

Her  tone  was  tender  and  earnest,  and  though  they 
had  been  long  parted,  she  was  nearer  to  him  than 
he  knew.  His  hand  closed  upon  hers,  and  in  the 
little  thrill  that  he  felt  he  forgot  his  disappointment. 

"  Could  you  not  send  me  any  word  ?  "   he  asked. 

"  I  am  a  prisoner,"  she  answered,  more  than  half 
in  earnest.  "  It  would  be  ill  for  you  if  the  Queen 
found  you  here  ;  but  there  is  no  danger,  for  they  are 
all  gone  to  the  high  mass  in  the  cathedral." 

"And  why  are  you  left  behind?  "  he  asked. 

"  They  always  say  that  I  am  not  strong,"  she 
replied,  "especially  when  there  might  be  a  possi 
bility  of  your  seeing  me.  She  has  never  allowed 
me  to  be  with  all  the  others  when  the  court  is 
together,  since  I  was  brought  over  from  England." 

"  That  is  why  I  did  not  see  you  at  Vezelay,"  he 
said,  suddenly  understanding. 

And  with  him  to  understand  was  to  act.  He 
might  have  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  him 
self  at  leisure  that  he  was  seriously  in  love  with 
Beatrix,  but  being  taken  suddenly  and  unawares,  he 
had  not  the  slightest  doubt  as  to  what  he  ought 
to  do.  Before  she  could  answer  his  last  words,  he 


200  VIA   CRUCIS 

had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  drawing  her  by  the 
hand. 

"  Come,"  he  cried.  "  I  can  easily  take  you  by  the 
way  I  came.  It  is  only  a  step,  and  in  five  minutes 
you  shall  be  as  free  as  I  am  !  " 

But,  to  his  great  surprise,  Beatrix  seemed  inclined 
to  laugh  at  him. 

"Where  should  we  go?"  she  asked,  refusing  to 
leave  her  seat.  "We  should  be  caught  before  we 
reached  the  city  gates,  and  it  would  be  the  worse 
for  us." 

"And  who  should  dare  touch  us?"  asked  Gilbert, 
indignantly.  "  Who  should  dare  to  lay  a  hand  on 
you?" 

"You  are  strong  and  brave,"  answered  Beatrix, 
"  but  you  are  not  an  army,  and  the  Queen  —  but  you 
will  not  believe  what  I  say." 

"  If  the  Queen  even  cared  to  see  my  face,  she  could 
send  for  me.  It  is  three  weeks  since  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her,  five  hundred  yards  away." 

"She  is  angry  with  you,"  answered  the  young 
girl,  "  and  she  thinks  that  you  will  wish  to  be  with 
her,  and  will  find  some  way  of  seeing  her." 

44  But,"  argued  Gilbert,  "  if  she  only  meant  to  use 
your  name  in  order  to  bring  me  from  Rome,  it  would 
have  been  quite  enough  to  have  written  that  letter 
without  having  brought  you  at  all." 

"  And  how  could  she  tell  that  I  did  not  know 
where  you  were,  or  that  I  could  not  send  you  a 
message  which  might  contradict  hers  ?  " 

"That  is  true,"  Gilbert  admitted.  "But  what 
does  it  matter,  after  all,  since  we  have  met  at  last?  " 


VIA   CRUCIS  201 

"  Yes ;  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

They  asked  the  answerless  question  of  each  other 
almost  unconsciously,  for  they  were  rinding  each 
other  again.  There  are  plants  which  may  be  plucked 
up  half-grown,  before  their  roots  have  spread  in  the 
earth  or  their  buds  ripened  to  blossoming,  and  they 
may  lie  long  in  dry  places  till  they  seem  withered 
and  dead ;  but  there  is  life  in  their  fibres  still,  and 
the  power  to  grow  is  in  the  shrivelled  stem  and  in 
the  dusty  leaf,  so  that  if  they  be  planted  again  and 
tended  they  come  at  last  to  their  due  maturity. 
Gilbert  and  Beatrix  might  have  lived  out  their  lives 
apart,  and  in  the  course  of  years  they  would  have 
been  the  merest  memories  to  each  other;  but  having 
met  in  the  slow  weaving  of  fate's  threads,  they 
became  destined  to  win  or  lose  together. 

Their  conversation  needed  but  the  slightest  direc 
tion  to  take  them  back  to  the  recollections  of  other 
times,  and  one  of  the  first  elements  of  lasting  love 
is  a  common  past,  though  that  past  may  have  covered 
but  a  few  days.  To  that  memory  lovers  go  back 
as  to  the  starting-point  of  life's  journey,  and  though 
they  may  not  speak  of  it  often,  yet  its  existence  is 
the  narrow  ledge  on  which  they  have  reared  their 
stronghold  in  the  perilous  pass.  And  the  English 
boy  and  girl  had  really  lived  a  joint  life,  in  their 
sympathies  and  surroundings,  for  years  before  a  joint 
misfortune  had  overtaken  them.  In  their  meeting 
after  a  long  separation  they  felt  at  the  same  time 
the  rare  delight  of  friendship  renewed,  and  the  still 
rarer  charm  of  finding  new  acquaintances  in  old 
friends ;  but  besides  the  well-remembered  bond  of 


202  VIA   CRTJCIS 

habit,  and  the  strong  attraction  of  newly  awakened 
interest,  there  was  the  masterful,  nameless  some 
thing  upon  which  man's  world  has  spun  for  all  ages, 
as  the  material  earth  turns  on  its  poles  toward  the 
sun  —  always  to  hope  beyond  failure,  always  to  life 
beyond  death,  always  and  forever  to  love  beyond 
life.  It  is  the  spark  from  heaven,  the  stolen  fire, 
the  mask  of  divinity  with  which  the  poorest  of  man 
kind  may  play  himself  a  god.  It  has  all  powers,  and 
it  brings  all  gifts  —  the  gift  of  tongues,  for  it  is 
above  words ;  the  gift  of  prophecy,  for  it  has  fore 
knowledge  of  its  own  sadness ;  the  gift  of  life,  for 
it  is  itself  that  elixir  in  which  mankind  boasts  of 
eternal  youth. 

The  two  sat  side  by  side  and  talked,  and  were 
silent,  and  talked  again,  understanding  each  other 
and  happy  in  finding  more  to  understand.  The  sun 
rose  high  and  fell  through  the  rustling  leaves  in 
fanciful  warm  tracery  of  light ;  down  from  the  Bos- 
phorus  the  sweet  northerly  breeze  came  over  the 
rippling  water,  laden  with  the  scent  of  orange-blos 
soms  from  the  Asian  shore  and  with  the  perfume 
of  late  roses  from  far  Therapia.  Between  the 
trees  they  could  see  the  white  sails  of  little  vessels 
beating  to  windward  up  the  narrow  channel,  and  now 
and  then  the  dyed  canvas  of  a  fisherman's  craft  set 
a  strangely  disquieting  note  of  colour  upon  the  sea. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  time,  for  all  life  was  theirs, 
and  it  was  all  before  them ;  an  hour  had  passed,  and 
they  had  not  told  each  other  half  ;  another  came  and 
went,  and  what  there  was  to  tell  still  gained  upon 
them. 


BEATRIX   AXD   GILBERT 


VIA   CRUCIS  20& 

They  talked  of  the  Crusade,  and  of  how  the  Queen 
had  given  her  ladies  no  choice,  commanding  them  to 
follow  her,  as  a  noble  would  order  his  vassals  to  rise 
with  him  to  the  king's  war.  Three  hundred  ladies 
were  to  wear  mail  and  lead  the  van  of  battle,  the 
fairest  ladies  of  France  and  Aquitaine,  of  Gascony, 
of  Burgundy,  and  of  Provence.  So  far,  a  few  had 
ridden,  and  many  had  been  carried  in  closed  litters 
slung  between  mules  or  borne  on  the  broad  shoulders 
of  Swiss  porters;  and  each  lady  had  her  serving- 
maid,  and  her  servants  and  mules  heavy  laden  with 
the  furniture  of  beauty,  with  laces  and  silks  and 
velvets,  jewellery  and  scented  waters,  and  salves  for 
the  face,  of  great  virtue  against  cold  and  heat.  It 
was  a  little  army  in  itself,  recruited  of  the  women, 
and  in  which  beauty  was  rank,  and  rank  was  power ; 
and  in  order  that  the  three  hundred  might  ride  with 
Queen  Eleanor  in  the  most  marvellous  masquerade 
of  all  time,  a  host  of  some  two  thousand  servants 
and  porters  crossed  Europe  on  foot  and  on  horse 
back  from  the  Rhine  to  the  Bosphorus.  The  mere 
idea  was  so  vastly  absurd  that  Gilbert  had  laughed 
at  it  many  a  time  by  himself ;  and  yet  there  was  at 
the  root  of  it  an  impulse  which  was  rather  sublime 
than  ridiculous.  Between  its  conception  and  its 
execution  the  time  was  too  long,  and  the  hot  blood 
of  daring  romance  already  felt  the  fatal  chill  of  com 
ing  failure. 

Gilbert  looked  at  the  delicate  features  and  the 
slight  figure  beside  him,  and  he  resented  the  mere 
thought  that  Beatrix  should  ever  be  exposed  to 
weariness  and  hardship.  But  she  laughed. 


204  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  I  am  always  left  behind  on  great  occasions,"  she 
said.  "  You  need  not  fear  for  me,  for  I  shall  cer 
tainly  not  be  seen  on  the  Queen's  left  hand  when  she 
overcomes  the  Seljuks  without  your  help.  I  shall  be 
told  to  wait  quietly  in  my  tent  until  it  is  all  over. 
What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  can  at  least  let  me  know  where  you  are," 
answered  Gilbert. 

"  What  satisfaction  shall  you  get  from  that?  You 
cannot  see  me  ;  you  cannot  come  to  me  in  the  ladies' 
camp." 

"  Indeed  I  can,  and  will,"  answered  Gilbert,  with 
out  the  least  hesitation. 

"  At  the  risk  of  the  Queen's  displeasure  ?  " 

"  At  any  risk." 

"  How  strange  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  Beatrix,  raising 
her  eyebrows  a  little,  but  smiling  happily.  "This 
morning  you  would  not  have  risked  anything  especial 
for  the  sake  of  finding  me,  but  now  that  we  have 
met  by  chance  you  are  ready  to  do  anything  and 
everything  to  see  me  again." 

"  Of  some  things,"  answered  her  companion,  "  one 
does  not  know  how  much  one  wants  them  till  they 
are  within  reach." 

"  And  there  are  others  which  one  longs  for  till  one 
has  them,  and  which  one  despises  as  soon  as  they  are 
one's  own." 

"  What  things  may  those  be  ?  "  asked  Gilbert. 

"  I  have  heard  Queen  Eleanor  say  that  a  husband 
is  one  of  them,"  answered  Beatrix,  demurely,  "  but  I 
dare  say  that  she  is  not  always  right." 

Side  by  side  the  two  sat  in  the  autumn  noonday, 


VIA   CRUCIS  205 

each  forgetful  of  all  but  the  other,  in  the  perfect 
unconsciousness  of  the  difference  their  meeting  was 
to  make  in  their  lives  from  that  day  onward.  Yet 
after  the  first  few  words  they  did  not  speak  again  of 
Beatrix's  father  nor  of  Gilbert's  mother.  By  a  com 
mon  instinct  they  tried  to  lose  both,  in  the  happiness 
of  again  finding  one  another. 

Then,  at  last,  a  cloud  passed  over  the  sun,  and 
Beatrix  felt  a  little  chill  that  was  like  the  breath  of 
a  coming  evil  while  Gilbert  became  suddenly  very 
grave  and  thoughtful. 

Beatrix  looked  round,  more  in  fear  than  in  sus 
picion,  as  a  child  does  at  night,  when  it  has  been 
frightened  by  a  tale  of  goblins;  and,  turning,  she 
caught  sight  of  something  and  turned  farther,  and 
then  started  with  a  scared  cry  and  half  rose,  with 
her  hand  on  Gilbert's  arm.  Anxious  for  her,  he 
sprang  up  to  his  height  at  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
and  at  the  same  moment  he  saw  what  she  saw,  and 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  It  was  not 
a  cloud  that  had  passed  between  them  and  the 
sun. 

The  Queen  stood  there,  as  she  had  come  from  the 
Office  in  the  church,  a  veil  embroidered  with  gold 
pinned  upon  her  head  in  a  fashion  altogether  her 
own.  Her  clear  eyes  were  very  bright  and  hard, 
and  her  beautiful  lips  had  a  frozen  look. 

"  It  is  very  long  since  I  have  seen  you,"  she  said 
to  Gilbert,  "  and  I  had  not  thought  to  see  you  here 
—  of  all  places — unbidden." 

"  Nor  I  to  be  here,  Madam,"  answered  the 
Englishman. 


206  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  Did  you  come  here  in  your  sleep  ?  "  asked  the 
Queen,  coldly. 

"  For  aught  that  I  can  tell  how  I  got  here,  it  may 
be  as  your  Grace  says.  I  came  by  such  a  way  as  I 
may  not  find  again." 

"  I  care  not  how  soon  you  find  another,  sir,  so  that 
it  be  a  way  out." 

Gilbert  had  never  seen  the  Queen  gravely  dis 
pleased,  and  as  yet  she  had  been  very  kind  to  him 
when  he  had  been  in  her  presence.  Against  her 
anger  he  drew  himself  up,  for  he  neither  loved  her 
nor  feared  her,  and  as  he  looked  at  her  now  he  saw 
in  her  eyes  that  haunting  memory  of  his  own  mother 
which  had  disturbed  him  more  than  once. 

"  I  ask  your  Grace's  pardon,"  he  said  slowly,  "  for 
having  entered  uninvited.  Yet  I  am  glad  that  I  did, 
since  I  have  found  what  was  kept  from  me  so  long." 

"  I  fancied  your  idol  so  changed  that  you  might 
not  care  to  find  it  after  all !  " 

Beatrix  hardly  understood  what  the  words  meant, 
but  she  knew  that  they  were  intended  to  hurt  both 
her  and  Gilbert,  and  she  saw  by  his  face  what  he 
felt.  Knowing  as  she  did  that  the  Queen  was  very 
strongly  attracted  by  him,  she  would  not  have  been 
human  if  she  had  not  felt  in  her  throat  the  pulse  of 
triumph,  as  she  stood  beside  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world,  pale,  slight,  sad-eyed,  but  pre 
ferred  before  the  other's  supreme  beauty  by  the  one 
man  whose  preference  meant  anything  at  all.  But  a 
moment  later  she  forgot  herself  and  feared  for  him. 

"  Madam,"  he  said  very  slowly  and  distinctly,  "  I 
trust  that  I  may  not  fail  in  courtesy,  either  toward 


VIA   CRT7CIS  207 

your  Grace,  or  toward  any  other  woman,  high  or 
low ;  and  none  but  the  blind  man  would  deny  that,  of 
all  women,  you  are  fairest,  wherefore  you  may  cast 
it  in  the  face  of  other  ladies  of  your  court  that  you 
are  fairer  than  they.  But  since  your  Grace  would 
wear  a  man's  armour  and  draw  a  knight's  sword, 
and  ride  for  the  Cross,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
the  gentlemen  of  Normandy  and  Gascony  and 
France,  I  shall  tell  you  without  fear  of  discourtesy, 
as  one  man  would  tell  another,  that  your  words  and 
your  deeds  are  less  gentle  than  your  royal  blood." 

He  finished  speaking  and  looked  her  quietly  in  the 
face,  his  arms  folded,  his  brow  calm,  his  eyes  still 
and  clear.  Beatrix  fell  back  a  step  and  drew 
anxious  breath,  for  it  was  no  small  thing  to  cross 
words  boldly  with  the  sovereign  next  in  power  to 
the  Emperor  himself.  And  at  the  first,  the  seething 
blood  hissed  in  the  Queen's  ears,  and  her  lovely  face 
grew  ashy  pale,  and  her  wrath  rose  in  her  eyes  with 
the  red  shadow  of  coming  revenge.  But  no  manlike 
impulse  moved  her  hand  nor  her  foot,  and  she  stood 
motionless,  with  half  her  mantle  gathered  round  her. 
In  the  fierce  silence,  the  two  faced  each  other,  while 
Beatrix  looked  on,  half  sick  with  fear.  Neither 
moved  an  eyelash,  nor  did  the  glance  of  either  flinch, 
till  it  seemed  as  if  a  spell  had  bound  them  there  for 
ever,  motionless,  under  the  changing  shadows  of  the 
leaves,  only  their  hair  stirring  in  the  cool  wind. 
Eleanor  knew  that  no  man  had  ever  thus  faced  her 
before.  For  a  few  moments  she  felt  the  absolute 
confidence  in  herself  which  had  never  failed  her  yet; 
the  certainty  of  strength  which  drove  the  King  to 


208  VIA   CRUCIS 

take  refuge  from  her  behind  a  barrier  of  devotion 
and  prayer ;  the  insolence  of  wit  and  force  against 
which  the  holy  man  of  Clairvaux  had  never  found  a 
weapon  of  thought  or  speech.  And  still  the  hard 
Norman  eyes  were  colder  and  angrier  than  her  own, 
and  still  the  man's  head  was  high,  and  his  face  like 
a  mask.  At  last  she  felt  her  lids  tremble,  and 
her  lips  quiver ;  his  face  moved  strangely  in  her 
sight,  his  cold  resistance  hurt  her  as  if  she  were 
thrusting  herself  uselessly  against  a  rock  ;  she  knew 
that  he  was  stronger  than  she,  and  that  she  loved 
him.  The  struggle  was  over  ;  her  face  softened,  and 
her  eyes  looked  down.  Beatrix  could  not  under 
stand,  for  she  had  expected  that  the  Queen  would 
command  Gilbert  to  leave  them,  and  that  before  long 
her  vengeance  would  most  certainly  overtake  him. 
But  instead,  it  was  the  young  soldier  without  fame 
or  fortune,  the  boy  with  whom  she  had  many  a  time 
played  children's  games,  before  whom  Eleanor, 
Duchess  of  Guienne  and  Queen  of  France,  lost 
courage  and  confidence. 

A  moment  later  she  looked  up  again,  and  not  a 
trace  of  her  anger  was  left  to  see.  Simply  and 
quietly  she  came  to  Gilberts  side  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  sleeve. 

"  You  make  me  say  things  I  do  not  mean,"  she  said. 

If  she  had  actually  asked  his  forgiveness  in  words, 
she  could  not  have  expressed  a  real  regret  more 
plainly,  nor  perhaps  could  she  have  done  anything 
so  sure  to  produce  a  strong  impression  upon  the 
two  who  heard  her.  Gilbert's  face  relaxed  instantly, 
and  Beatrix  forgot  to  be  afraid. 


VIA   CRTJCIS  209 

"  I  crave  your  Grace's  pardon,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  If  I  spoke  rudely  let  my  excuse  be  that  it 
was  not  for  myself.  We  were  children  together,"  he 
added,  looking  at  Beatrix,  "  we  grew  up  together, 
and  after  long  parting  we  have  met  by  chance. 
There  is  much  left  of  what  there  was.  I  pray  that 
without  concealment  I  may  see  the  Lady  Beatrix 
again." 

The  Queen  turned  slowly  from  them  and  stood 
for  a  few  moments  looking  toward  the  sea.  Then 
she  turned  again  and  smiled  at  Gilbert,  not  unkindly; 
but  she  said  no  word,  and  presently,  as  they  stood 
there,  she  left  them,  and  walked  slowly  away  with 
bent  head,  toward  the  palace. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THREE  weeks  the  French  armies  lay  encamped 
without  the  walls  of  Constantinople,  while  the 
Emperor  of  the  Greeks  used  every  art  and  every 
means  to  rid  himself  of  the  unwelcome  host,  with 
out  giving  overmuch  offence  to  his  royal  guests. 
The  army  of  Conrad,  he  said,  had  gained  a  great 
victory  in  Asia  Minor.  Travel-stained  messengers 
arrived  in  Chrysopolis,  and  were  brought  across  the 
Bosphorus  to  appear  before  the  King  and  Queen 
of  France,  with  tales  of  great  and  marvellous  deeds 
of  arms  against  the  infidels.  Fifty  thousand  Seljuks 
had  been  drowned  in  their  own  blood  ;  three  times 
that  number  had  fled  from  the  field,  and  were 
scattered  fainting  and  wounded  in  the  Eastern 
hills  ;  vast  spoils  of  gold  and  silver  had  fallen  to 
the  Christians,  and  if  the  Frenchmen  craved  a  share 
in  the  victories  of  the  Cross,  or  hoped  for  some  part 
or  parcel  of  the  splendid  booty,  it  was  high  time 
that  they  should  be  marching  to  join  the  Germans  in 
the  field. 

Yet  Louis  would  have  tarried  longer  to  complete 
the  full  month  of  devotions  and  thanksgiving  for 
the  march  accomplished,  and  many  of  his  followers 
would  cheerfully  have  spent  the  remainder  of  their 
days  on  the  pleasant  shores  of  the  Bosphorus  and  the 
Golden  Horn  ;  but  the  Queen  was  weary  of  the  long 

210 


VIA   CRUCIS  211 

preface  to  her  unwritten  history  of  arms,  and  grew 
impatient,  and  took  the  Greek  Emperor's  side,  believ 
ing  all  the  messages  which  he  provided  for  her 
imagination.  And  so  at  last  the  great  multitude 
was  brought  over  to  Asia  by  boat,  and  marched  by 
quick  stages  to  the  plain  of  Nicaea.  There  they 
pitched  their  camp  by  the  Lake  of  Ascanius,  and 
waited  for  news  of  the  Germans  ;  for  the  messengers 
had  brought  information  that  the  German  Emperor 
desired  to  make  Niceea  the  try  sting-place.  But  the 
messengers  had  all  been  Greeks,  and  the  French 
waited  many  days  in  vain,  spoiling  the  country  of  all 
they  could  take,  though  it  was  in  the  dominion  of 
Christians,  and  no  man  dared  raise  a  hand  to  defend 
his  own  against  the  Crusaders. 

Among  the  French,  there  were  many,  both  of  the 
great  lords  and  of  the  simple  knights,  and  of  poor 
men-at-arms,  who  would  have  counted  it  mortal  sin 
to  take  anything  from  a  stranger  without  payment, 
who  had  come  for  faith's  sake,  to  fight  for  faith,  and 
who  looked  for  faith's  reward.  Yet  as  there  can  be 
in  logic  nothing  good  excepting  by  its  own  com 
parison  with  things  evil,  so  in  that  great  pilgrimage 
of  arms  the  worst  followed  the  best  in  a  greedy 
throng,  as  the  jackal  and  the  raven  cross  the  desert 
in  the  lion's  track.  And  the  roads  by  which  they 
had  marched,  and  the  lands  wherein  they  had  camped, 
lay  waste  as  lie  the  wheat-fields  of  Palestine  in  June, 
when  the  plague  of  locusts  has  eaten  its  way  from 
east  to  west. 

When  they  came  to  a  resting-place  after  many 
days'  march,  mud-stained  or  white  with  dust,  weary 


212  VIA   CKUCIS 

and  footsore,  their  horses  lame,  their  mules  over 
laden  with  the  burdens  of  those  that  had  died  by  the 
way,  beards  half  grown,  hair  unkempt,  faces  grimy, 
clothes  worn  shapeless,  they  were  more  like  a  multi 
tude  of  barbarians  wandering  upon  the  plains  of 
Asia  than  like  nobles  of  France  and  high-born  Cru 
saders.  At  first,  when  they  reached  the  halting-place 
by  stream  or  river  or  lake,  there  was  a  struggle  for 
drinking  and  a  strife  for  the  watering  of  horses  and 
beasts  of  burden,  so  that  sometimes  men  and  mules 
were  trampled  down  and  hurt,  and  some  were  killed ; 
but  it  mattered  little  in  so  great  a  host,  and  a  spade's 
depth  of  earth  was  ample  burial  for  a  man,  and  if  a 
priest  could  be  found  to  bless  his  body  on  the  spot  where 
he  lay  it  was  enough,  since  he  had  died  on  the  road1 
to  Jerusalem ;  but  the  jackals  and  wild  dogs  followed, 
the  march  and  lay  in  wait  for  dead  beasts.  Then 
when  the  first  confusion  was  over,  when  hunger  and 
thirst  were  satisfied,  the  tents  were  unpacked  with 
their  poles,  and  the  sound  of  the  great  wooden  mal 
lets  striking  upon  the  tent-pegs  was  like  the  irregu 
lar  pounding  stroke  of  the  fullers'  hammers  as  the 
water-wheel  makes  them  rise  and  fall ;  and  though 
the  army  had  crossed  Europe  and  had  encamped  in 
many  places,  the  colours  of  the  tents  were  bright  still, 
and  the  pennants  floated  in  streaks  of  vivid  colour 
against  the  sky.  Soon,  when  the  first  work  was  over 
and  the  little  villages  of  red  and  green  and  purple 
and  white  canvas  were  built  up  in  their  long  irregu 
lar  lines,  the  smoke  of  camp-fires  rose  in  curling 
wreaths,  and  bag  and  baggage,  pack  and  parcel,  were 
opened  and  the  contents  spread  out.  As  if  for  some 


VIA   CRUCIS  213 

great  festival,  men  and  women  chose  their  gayest 
clothes  and  richest  ornaments,  so  that  when  they 
met  again  before  the  open  tents  which  were  set 
up  for  chapels,  one  for  each  little  band  of  fellow- 
townsmen  and  neighbours  at  home,  and  afterwards 
when  they  ate  and  drank  together  according  to  their 
rank,  under  wide  awnings  at  noontide,  or  beneath 
the  clear  sky  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  it  was  a 
goodly  sight,  and  every  man's  heart  was  lightened 
and  his  courage  returned  as  he  felt  that  he  himself 
had  his  share  and  part  of  the  glorious  whole.  For 
it  was  as  it  always  is  and  always  must  be,  where 
power  and  wealth  are  masters  of  the  scene,  and  there 
is  no  acting  room  for  misery  or  sorrow  or  such  poor 
strolling  players  as  sickness  and  death.  The  things 
which  please  not  the  eye  are  quick  to  offend  souls 
nursed  in  a  faultless  taste,  and  the  charnel-house  of 
failure  receives  whatsoever  things  have  not  the  power 
of  pleasing. 

Now  when  they  came  to  Nicsea,  hope  was  high, 
and  the  light  of  victory  to  come  seemed  to  be 
shining  in  every  man's  eyes.  There  for  the  first 
time  Queen  Eleanor  led  out  her  three  hundred 
ladies  in  battle  array,  clad  in  bright  mail,  with  skirts 
of  silk  and  cloth  of  gold,  and  long  white  mantles, 
each  with  the  scarlet  cross  upon  the  shoulder  ;  and 
on  their  heads  they  wore  light  caps  of  steel  orna 
mented  with  chiselled  gold  and  silver,  and  here  and 
there  with  a  metal  crest  or  a  bird's  wing,  beaten 
out  of  thin  silver  plate. 

It  was  at  noonday  under  the  fair  autumn  sun.  A 
broad  meadow,  green  still  in  patches,  where  the  grass 


214  VIA   CRUCIS 

had  not  been  burned  brown  by  the  early  summer  heat^ 
stretched  toward  the  Lake  of  Ascanius,  where  the 
ground  rose  in  hillocks,  to  end  abruptly  in  a  sheer 
fall  of  thirty  or  forty  feet  to  the  water's  edge. 
There  were  places  where  there  was  no  grass  at  all, 
and  where  the  dry  gravel  lay  bare  and  dusty,  yet  on 
the  whole  it  was  a  fair  field  for  a  great  assembly  of 
men  on  horseback  and  on  foot.  To  southward  the 
meadow  rose,  rolling  away  to  the  distant  hills, 
whither  the  German  host  was  already  gone.  The 
great  lords,  with  their  men-at-arms  and  squires, 
riding  each  in  the  midst  of  his  vassal  knights,  went 
out  thither  to  see  such  a  sight  as  none  had  seen 
before,  and  ranged  themselves  by  ranks  around  the 
field,  so  that  there  was  room  for  all.  And  thither 
Gilbert  went  also  with  his  man  Dunstan,  in  the 
King's  train,  for  he  owed  no  service  nor  allegiance 
to  any  man  there.  But  they  waited  long  for  the 
Queen. 

She  came  at  last,  leading  her  company  and  mounted 
on  a  beautiful  white  Arab  mare,  the  gift  of  the 
Greek  Emperor,  as  gentle  a  creature  as  ever  obeyed 
voice  and  hand,  and  as  swift  as  the  swiftest  of  the 
breed  of  Nejd.  She  rode  alone,  ten  lengths  before 
the  rest,  tall  and  straight  in  the  saddle  as  any  man, 
a  lance  in  her  right  hand,  while  her  left  held  the 
bridle  low  and  lightly  ;  and  at  the  very  first  glance 
every  soldier  in  that  great  field  knew  that  there 
was  none  like  her  in  the  troop.  Yet  her  fair  ladies 
made  a  good  showing  and  rode  not  badly  as  they 
cantered  by,  brilliant  and  changing  as  a  shower 
of  blossoms,  with  black  eyes,  and  blue,  and  brown, 


VIA   CRUCIS  215 

fair  cheeks  and  dark,  and  laughing  lips  not  made  to 
talk  of  rough  deeds  save  to  praise  them  in  husband 
or  lover, 

Next  to  the  Queen  and  before  the  following  ranks 
rode  one  who  bore  the  standard  of  Eleanor's  ancient 
house,  Saint  George  and  the  Dragon,  displayed  on  a 
white  ground  and  now  for  the  first  time  quartered 
in  a  cross.  The  Lady  Anne  of  Auch  was  very  dark, 
and  her  black  hair  streamed  like  a  shadow  in  the 
air  behind  her,  while  her  dark  eyes  looked  upward 
and  onward.  Splendidly  handsome  she  was,  and 
doubtless  Eleanor  had  chosen  her  for  her  beauty  to 
be  standard  bearer  of  the  troop,  well  knowing  that 
no  living  face  could  be  compared  with  her  own,  and 
willing  to  outshine  a  rival  whose  features  and  form 
were  the  honour  and  boast  of  the  South. 

They  rode  in  a  sort  of  order,  in  squadrons  of  fifty 
each,  but  not  in  serried  ranks,  for  they  had  not  the 
skill  to  keep  in  line,  though  they  rode  well  and 
boldly.  And  before  each  squadron  rode  a  lady  who 
for  her  beauty  or  her  rank,  or  for  both,  was  captain, 
and  wore  upon  her  steel  cap  a  gilded  crest.  Each 
squadron  had  a  colour  of  its  own,  scarlet  and  green 
and  violet,  and  the  tender  shade  of  anemones  in 
spring,  and  their  mantles  had  been  dyed  with  each 
hue  in  the  dyeing- vats  of  Venice,  and  were  lined  with 
delicately  tinted  silks  from  the  East,  brought  to  the 
harbours  of  France  by  Italian  traders.  For  the 
merchants  of  Amalfi  filled  the  Mediterranean  with 
their  busy  commerce  and  had  quarters  of  their  own 
in  every  Eastern  city,  and  had  then  but  lately 
founded  the  saintly  order  of  the  Knights  Hospi- 


216  VIA   CRUCIS 

tallers  of  Saint  John  of  Jerusalem,  whence  grew  the 
noble  community  of  the  Knights  of  Malta,  which 
was  to  live  through  many  centuries  even  to  our 
day. 

Nor  could  the  Queen's  ladies  have  worn  mail  and 
steel  and  wielded  sword  and  lance,  so  that  at  a  long 
stone's  throw  they  might  almost  have  passed  for 
men,  but  that  cunning  jewellers  and  artificers  of 
Italy,  and  Moorish  smiths  from  Spain,  had  been 
brought  at  great  pains  and  cost  to  France  to  make 
such  armour  and  weapons  as  had  never  been  wrought 
before.  The  mail  was  of  finest  rings  of  steel  sewn 
upon  soft  doeskin,  fitted  so  closely  that  there  was 
no  room  for  gambison  or  jerkin  ;  and  though  it  might 
have  stopped  a  broad  arrow  or  turned  the  edge  of  a 
blade,  a  sharp  dagger  could  have  made  a  wound 
beneath  it,  and  against  a  blow  it  afforded  less  pro 
tection  than  a  woollen  cloak.  Many  had  little  rings 
of  gold  sewn  regularly  in  the  rows  of  steel  ones, 
that  caught  the  light  with  a  warmer  sparkle,  and 
the  clasps  of  their  mantles  were  of  chiselled  gold  and 
silver.  The  trappings  of  each  horse  were  matched 
in  colour  with  the  ladies'  mantles,  and  the  captains  of 
the  squadrons  wore  golden  spurs. 

They  dropped  the  points  of  their  lances  as  they 
passed  the  King  where  he  sat  on  his  horse,  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  high  shore  of  the  lake,  in  the 
midst  of  his  chief  barons,  his  pale  face  expressing 
neither  interest  nor  pleasure  in  what  he  saw,  and 
his  eyes  distrustful,  as  always,  of  his  Queen  and  her 
many  caprices.  She,  when  she  had  saluted  him  with 
a  smile  that  was  almost  a  laugh,  rode  on  a  little  way, 


VIA   CBUCIS  21T 

and  then,  with  a  sharply  uttered  word  of  command, 
she  wheeled  by  the  left,  crossed  half  the  broad  field, 
and  led  her  ladies  back  straight  toward  the  King. 
Within  five  lengths  of  him  she  halted  suddenly, 
almost  bringing  her  horse's  haunches  to  the  ground, 
and  keeping  her  seat  in  a  way  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  man  brought  up  in  the  saddle.  To  tell 
the  truth,  very  few  of  her  ladies  were  able  to  per 
form  such  a  feat  with  any  ease  or  assurance,  and  in 
the  sudden  halt  there  was  more  than  a  little  disorder, 
accompanied  by  all  sorts  of  exclamations  of  annoy 
ance  and  ejaculations  of  surprise ;  yet,  in  spite  of 
difficulty,  the  whole  troop  came  to  a  standstill ; 
moreover,  a  hundred  thousand  or  more  of  knights 
and  soldiers  on  horseback  and  on  foot  were  so  much 
more  interested  in  the  looks  of  the  riders  than  in  their 
horsemanship,  and  the  whole  effect  of  the  gay  con 
fusion,  with  its  many  colours,  its  gleams  of  gold 
and  glint  of  silver,  was  so  pretty  and  altogether 
novel,  that  a  great  cry  of  enthusiasm  and  delight 
rang  in  the  sunny  air.  A  faint  flush  of  pleasure 
rose  in  the  Queen's  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  sparkled 
with  triumph  at  the  long  applause  which  was  on  her 
side  against  the  King's  disapproval.  She  dropped 
the  point  of  her  lance  until  it  almost  touched  the 
ground,  and  spoke  to  her  husband  in  a  high  clear 
voice  that  was  heard  by  many. 

"  I  present  to  your  Grace  this  troop  of  brave 
knights,"  she  said.  "In  strength  the  advantage  is 
yours,  in  numbers,  you  far  outdo  us,  in  age  you  are 
older,  in  experience  there  are  those  with  you  who 
have  lived  a  lifetime  in  arms.  Yet  we  have  some 


218  VIA   CRUCIS 

skill  also,  and  those  who  are  old  in  battles  know 
that  the  victory  belongs  to  the  spirit  and  the  heart, 
before  it  is  the  work  of  the  hand ;  and  in  these  my 
knights  are  not  behind  yours." 

The  men  who  heard  her  words  and  saw  the  lovely 
light  in  her  wondrous  face  threw  up  their  right 
hands  and  shouted  great  cheers  for  her  and  her  three 
hundred  riders,  but  the  King  spoke  no  word  of  praise, 
and  his  face  was  still  and  sour.  Again  the  Queen's 
cheek  flushed. 

"  Your  Grace  leads  the  army  of  France,"  she  said, 
*'  an  army  of  brave  men.  My  knights  are  many,  and 
brave  too,  the  troops  of  Guienne  and  of  Poitou  and 
of  Gascony  and  of  more  than  half  of  all  the  duchies 
that  speak  our  tongue  and  owe  me  allegiance.  But 
of  them  all,  and  before  them  all,  to  ride  in  van  of 
this  Holy  War,  I  choose  these  three  hundred  ladies. 
My  Lord  King,  and  you,  lords,  barons,  knights,  and 
men,  who  have  taken  upon  you  the  sign  of  the  Cross, 
you,  the  flower  of  French  chivalry  and  manhood, 
your  comrades  in  arms  are  these,  the  flowers  of 
France !  Long  live  the  King  !  " 

She  threw  up  her  lance  and  caught  it  easily  in  her 
right  hand  as  she  uttered  the  cry,  laughing  in  the 
King's  face,  and  well  knowing  her  power  compared 
with  his ;  and  as  the  high  young  voices  behind  her 
took  up  the  shout,  the  great  multitude  that  bordered 
the  meadow  took  it  up  also ;  but  one  word  was 
changed,  and  a  hundred  thousand  throats  shouted, 
"  Long  live  the  Queen  !  " 

When  there  was  silence  at  last,  the  King  looked 
awkwardly  to  his  right  and  left  as  if  seeking  advice ; 


VIA   CRUCIS  219 

but  the  nobles  about  him  were  watching  the  fair 
ladies,  and  had  perhaps  no  counsel  to  offer.  In  the 
great  stillness  the  Queen  waited,  still  smiling  trium 
phantly,  and  still  he  could  find  nothing  to  say,  so  that 
a  soft  titter  ran  through  the  ladies'  ranks,  whereat 
the  King  looked  more  sour  than  ever. 

"  Madam,"  he  began  at  last.  And  after  that  he 
seemed  to  be  speaking,  but  no  one  heard  what  he 
said. 

Apparently  with  the  intention  of  showing  that  he 
had  nothing  more  to  say,  —  and  indeed  it  was  of  very 
little  importance  whether  he  had  or  not,  —  he  waved 
his  hand  with  a  rather  awkward  gesture  and  slightly 
bowed  his  head. 

"  Long  live  the  monk  !  "  said  Eleanor,  audibly,  as 
she  wheeled  to  the  right  to  lead  her  troop  away. 

Gilbert  Warde  sat  on  his  horse  in  the  front  line  of 
the  spectators,  some  fifty  yards  from  the  King,  and 
near  the  edge  of  the  lake.  As  the  Queen  cantered 
along  the  line,  gathering  her  harvest  of  admiration 
in  men's  faces,  her  eyes  met  the  young  Englishman's 
and  recognized  him.  On  his  great  Norman  horse  he 
sat  half  a  head  taller  than  the  men  on  each  side  of 
him,  motionless  as  a  statue.  Yet  his  look  expressed 
something  which  she  had  never  seen  in  his  face  till 
then ;  for,  being  freed  from  her  immediate  influence 
and  at  liberty  to  look  on  her  merely  as  the  loveliest 
sight  in  the  world,  more  strangely  beautiful  than  ever 
in  her  gleaming  armour,  he  had  not  thought  of  con 
cealing  the  pleasure  he  felt  in  watching  her. 

Not  all  the  cheering  of  the  great  army,  not  all  the 
light  in  the  thousands  of  eyes  that  followed  her,  could 


220  VIA   CEUCIS 

have  done  more  than  bring  a  faint  colour  to  her  face, 
nor  could  any  man  in  all  that  host  have  found  a  word 
to  make  her  heart  beat  faster.  But  when  she  saw 
Gilbert  the  blood  sank  suddenly  and  her  eyes  grew 
darker.  They  lingered  on  him  as  she  rode  by,  and 
turned  back  to  him  a  little  with  drooping  lids,  and  a 
slight  bend  of  the  head  that  had  in  it  a  grace  beyond 
her  own  knowledge  or  intention.  He,  like  those 
beside  him,  threw  up  his  hand  and  cheered  again, 
and  she  did  not  see  that  almost  before  she  had  passed 
him  he  was  looking  along  the  ranks  for  another  face. 

The  three  hundred  cantered  slowly  round  half  the 
meadow,  and  the  cheer  followed  them  as  they  went, 
like  the  moving  cry  of  birds  on  the  wing ;  and  first 
they  rode  along  the  line  of  the  King's  men,  but 
presently  they  came  to  the  knights  and  soldiers  of 
Eleanor's  great  vassalage,  and  all  at  once  there  were 
flowers  in  the  air,  wild  flowers  from  the  fields  and 
autumn  roses  from  the  gardens  of  NicsBa,  plucked 
early  by  young  squires  and  boys,  and  tied  into  nose 
gays  and  carefully  shielded  from  the  sun,  that  they 
might  be  still  fresh  when  the  time  came  to  throw  them. 
The  light  blossoms  scattered  in  the  air,  and  the  leaves 
were  blown  into  the  faces  of  the  fair  women  as  they 
passed.  Moreover,  some  of  the*  knights  had  silken 
scarfs  of  red  and  white,  and  waved  them  above  their 
heads  while  they  cheered  and  shouted.  And  so  the 
troop  rode  round  three  sides  of  the  great  meadow. 

But  at  the  last  side  there  was  a  change  that  fell 
like  a  chill  upon  the  whole  multitude  of  men  and 
women,  and  a  cry  came  ringing  down  the  air  that 
struck  a  discord  through  the  triumphant  notes,  long, 


VIA   CRUCIS  221 

harsh,  bad  to  hear  as  the  howl  of  wild  beasts  when  the 
fire  licks  up  the  grass  of  the  wilderness  behind  them. 
At  the  sound,  men  turned  their  heads  and  looked  in 
the  direction  whence  it  came,  and  many,  by  old 
instinct,  slipped  their  left  hands  to  the  hilts  of  sword 
and  dagger,  and  felt  that  each  blade  was  loose  in  its 
sheath.  As  she  galloped  along,  Queen  Eleanor's  white 
mare  threw  up  her  head  sideways  with  a  snort  and 
swerved,  almost  wrenching  the  bridle  from  the 
Queen's  hold,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  lusty 
cheering  broke  high  in  the  air  and  died  fitfully  away. 
The  instinct  of  fear  and  the  foreknowledge  of  great 
evil  were  present,  unseen  and  terrible,  and  of  the 
three  hundred  ladies  who  reined  in  their  horses  as 
the  Queen  halted,  nine  out  of  ten  felt  that  they 
changed  colour,  scarcely  knowing  why.  With  one 
common  impulse  all  turned  their  eyes  towards  the 
rising  ground  to  southward. 

There  were  strange  figures  upon  the  low  hillocks, 
riding  out  of  the  woods  at  furious  speed  towards  the 
meadow,  and  already  the  deep  lines  began  to  open 
and  part  to  make  way  for  the  rush.  There  were 
men  bareheaded,  with  rags  of  mantles  streaming  on 
the  wind,  spurring  lame  and  jaded  horses  to  the 
speed  of  a  charge,  and  crying  out  strange  words  in 
tones  of  terror.  But  only  one  word  was  understood 
by  some  of  those  who  heard. 

"  The  Seljuks  !     The  Seljuks  !  " 

Down  the  gentle  slope  they  came  spurring  like 
madmen.  As  they  drew  nearer,  one  could  see  that 
there  was  blood  on  their  armour,  blood  on  the  rags 
of  their  cloaks,  blood  on  their  faces  and  on  their 


222  VIA  CRTJCIS 

hands  ;  some  were  wounded  in  the  head,  and  the 
clotted  gore  made  streaks  upon  their  necks  ;  some 
had  bandages  upon  them  made  of  strips  of  torn-up 
clothes  —  and  one  man  who  rode  in  the  front,  when 
his  horse  sprang  a  ditch  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  threw 
up  an  arm  that  was  without  a  hand. 

No  man  of  all  the  throng  who  had  ever  seen  war 
doubted  the  truth  for  one  moment  after  the  first  of 
the  wild  riders  was  in  sight,  and  the  older  and  more 
experienced  men  instinctively  looked  into  each  other's 
faces  and  came  forward  together.  But  even  had  they 
been  warned  in  time,  they  could  have  done  nothing 
against  the  fright  that  seized  the  younger  men  and 
the  women  at  the  throat  like  a  bodily  enemy,  chok 
ing  out  hope  and  strength  and  youth  in  the  dreadful 
premonition  of  untimely  death.  The  squires  pressed 
upon  the  knights,  the  boys  and  young  men-at-arms 
and  the  followers  of  the  camp  forced  their  weight 
inward  next,  and  the  inner  circle  yielded  and  allowed 
itself  to  be  crushed  in  upon  the  troop  of  ladies,  whose 
horses  began  to  plunge  and  rear  with  their  riders' 
fright ;  and  still,  on  one  side,  the  crowd  tried  to  part 
before  the  coming  fugitives.  The  first  came  tearing 
down,  his  horse's  nostrils  streaming  with  blood,  him 
self  wild-eyed,  with  foam-flecked  lips  that  howled  the 
words  of  terror.  "  The  Seljuks  !  The  Seljuks  !  " 

A  dozen  lengths  before  the  terror-stricken  wall  of 
human  beings  that  could  not  make  way  to  let  him  in, 
without  warning,  without  a  death-gasp,  the  horse 
doubled  his  head  under  himself  as  he  galloped  his 
last  stride,  and  falling  in  a  round  heap  rolled  over 
and  over  forwards  with  frightful  violence,  till  he 


VIA  CRUCIS  223 

suddenly  lay  stiff  and  stark  with  twisted  neck  and 
outstretched  heels,  within  a  yard  of  the  shrinking 
crowd,  his  rider  crushed  to  death  on  the  grass  behind 
him.  And  still  the  others  came  tearing  down  the 
hill,  more  and  more,  faster  and  faster,  as  if  no  earthly 
power  could  stop  their  rush.  First  a  score  and  then  a 
hundred,  and  then  the  torn  remnants  of  a  vanquished 
host,  blown,  as  it  were  like  fallen  leaves  by  the  whirl 
wind  of  the  death  they  had  but  just  escaped.  Many 
of  them,  not  knowing  and  not  caring  what  they  did, 
and  remembering  only  the  wrath  from  which  they 
fled,  did  not  even  try  to  rein  in  their  horses,  and  the 
beasts  themselves,  mad  with  fright  and  pain,  charged 
right  at  the  ranks  of  people  on  foot  and  reared  their 
full  height  at  the  last  bound  rather  than  override  a 
living  man  ;  and  many  were  crushed  in  the  press, 
and  many  fell  from  their  jaded  mounts,  too  weary  to 
rise  and  too  much  exhausted  to  utter  any  words  save 
a  cry  for  water. 

Nevertheless,  two  or  three  who  had  more  life  in 
them  than  the  rest  were  able  to  stand,  and  were 
presently  led  round  the  close-packed  crowd  to  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  where  the  King  was  quietly  waiting 
with  his  courtiers  until  the  confusion  should  end 
itself,  saying  a  prayer  or  two  for  the  welfare  of  every 
one  concerned,  but  making  not  the  slightest  attempt 
to  restrain  the  panic  nor  to  restore  order.  But  the 
Queen  and  her  ladies  were  in  danger  of  being  crushed 
to  death  in  the  very  midst  of  the  seething,  bruising, 
stifling  mass  of  humanity. 

Gilbert  was  near  the  King,  and  sitting  high  on  his 
great  horse  he  saw  farther  than  most  men  above  the 


224  VIA   CRTICIS 

wild  confusion.  It  was  as  if  some  frightful,  unseen 
monster  were  gathering  a  hundred  thousand  men  in 
iron  coils,  always  inward,  as  great  snakes  crush  their 
prey,  thousands  upon  thousands,  the  bodies  of  horses 
and  men  upon  men  and  horses,  with  resistless  force, 
till  the  human  beings  could  struggle  no  longer,  and 
the  beasts  themselves  could  neither  kick  nor  plunge, 
but  only  trample  all  that  was  near  them,  while 
they  moved  slowly  towards  the  centre.  In  thou 
sands  and  thousands  again,  on  an  almost  even  level, 
the  small  round  caps  of  many  colours  were  pressed 
together,  till  it  seemed  impossible  that  there  could  be 
room  for  the  bodies  that  belonged  to  them.  As  when, 
in  vintage  time,  the  gathered  fruit  is  brought  home  to 
the  vats  in  the  sweating  panniers  of  wood,  pressed 
down  and  level  to  the  brim,  and  the  red  and  white  and 
blue  and  green  grapes  lie  closely  touching  each  other 
almost  floating  in  the  juice,  rocking  and  bobbing  all 
at  once  with  every  step  of  the  laden  mule — so,  as 
Gilbert  looked  out  before  him,  the  bright-hued, 
close-fitting  caps  moved  restlessly  and  without  ceas 
ing  all  round  a  central  turmoil  of  splendid  colour, 
shaded  by  tender  tones  of  violet  and  olive,  and  shot 
by  the  glare  of  sunlit  gold,  and  the  sheen  of  silver, 
and  the  cold  light  of  polished  steel. 

But  there  in  the  heart  of  the  press  there  was 
danger,  and  from  far  away  Gilbert  saw  clearly 
enough,  through  the  cloud  of  light  and  colour,  the 
lifeless  tones  that  are  like  nothing  else  of  nat 
ure,  the  deadly  unreflecting  paleness  of  frightened 
faces,  and  the  cries  of  women  hurt  and  in  terror 
came  rising  over  the  heads  of  the  multitude.  He 


VIA   CEUCIS  225 

sat  still  and  looked  before  him  as  if  his  sight  could 
distinguish  the  features  of  one  or  another  at  that 
distance,  and  he  felt  icy  cold  when  he  thought  of 
what  might  happen,  and  that  all  those  fair  young 
girls  and  women,  in  their  beauty  and  in  their  youth, 
in  their  fanciful  dresses,  might  be  crushed  and  tram 
pled  and  kicked  to  death  before  thousands  who  would 
have  died  to  save  them.  His  first  instinct  was  to 
charge  the  crowd  before  him,  to  force  the  way,  even 
by  the  sword,  and  to  bring  the  Queen  and  her  ladies 
safely  back  ;  but  a  moment's  thought  showed  him 
how  utterly  futile  any  such  attempt  must  be,  and  that 
even  if  the  whole  throng  had  felt  as  he  felt  himself, 
and  had  wished  to  make  way  for  any  one,  it  would 
have  had  no  power  to  do  so.  There  was  but  one 
chance  of  saving  the  women,  and  that  evidently  lay 
in  leading  off  the  crowd  by  some  excitement  counter 
to  its  present  fear. 

The  instant  the  difficulty  and  the  danger  flashed 
upon  him  Gilbert  began  to  look  about  him  for  some 
means  of  safety  for  those  in  peril,  and  in  his  distress 
of  mind  every  lost  minute  was  monstrously  length 
ened  as  it  passed.  Beside  him,  his  man  Dunstan 
stood  in  silence,  apparently  indifferent  to  all  that  was 
taking  place,  his  quiet  dark  face  a  trifle  more  drawn 
and  keen  than  usual ;  and  though  a  very  slight  con 
traction  of  the  curved  nostrils  expressed  some  in 
ward  excitement,  it  was  scarcely  perceptible.  Gilbert 
knew  that  his  own  face  showed  his  extreme  anxiety, 
and  as  he  in  vain  attempted  to  find  some  expedient, 
the  man's  excessive  coolness  began  to  irritate  him. 

"  You  stand  there,"  said  Gilbert,  rather  coldly,  "  as 
Q 


226  VIA  CBUCIS 

i  you  did  not  care  that  three  hundred  ladies  of 
France  are  being  crushed  to  death  and  that  we  Eng 
lishmen  can  do  nothing  to  help  them." 

Dunstan  raised  his  lids  and  looked  up  at  his 
master  without  lifting  his  head. 

"  I  am  not  so  indifferent  as  the  King,  sir,"  he  an 
swered,  barely  raising  a  finger  in  the  direction  of  the 
knot  of  courtiers,  in  the  midst  of  whom,  some  fifty 
yards  away,  the  cold,  pale  face  of  the  King  was  just 
then  distinctly  visible.  "  France  might  be  burned 
before  his  eyes,  yet  he  would  pray  for  his  own  soul 
rather  than  lift  a  hand  for  the  lives  of  others." 

"We  are  as  bad  as  he,"  retorted  Gilbert,  almost 
angrily,  and  moving  uneasily  in  his  saddle  as  he  felt 
himself  powerless. 

Duustan  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  he  bit  one  side 
of  his  lower  lip  nervously  with  his  pointed  teeth. 
Suddenly  he  stooped  down  and  picked  up  something 
against  which  his  foot  had  struck  as  he  moved. 
Gilbert  paid  no  attention  to  what  he  did. 

"Do  you  wish  to  draw  away  the  crowd  so  as  to 
make  room  for  the  Queen  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  do !  "  Gilbert  looked  at  his  man 
inquiringly,  though  his  tone  was  harsh  and  almost 
angry.  "  We  cannot  cut  a  way  for  them  through  the 
crowd,"  he  added,  looking  before  him  again. 

Dunstan  laughed  quietly. 

"  I  will  lay  my  life  against  a  new  tunic  that  I  can 
make  this  multitude  spin  on  itself  like  a  whipped 
top,"  he  said.  "But  I  admit  that  you  could  not, 
sir." 

"  Why  not  ?  "    asked   Gilbert,  instantly  bending 


VIA  CRUcis  227 


iown  in  order  to  hear  better.  "  What  can  you  do 
that  I  cannot  ?  " 

"  What  gentle  blood  could  never  do,"  replied  the 
man,  with  a  shade  of  bitterness.  "Shall  I  have  the 
new  tunic  if  I  save  the  Lady  Beatrix  —  and  the 
Queen  of  France  ?  " 

"Twenty!  Anything  you  ask  for!  But  be 
quick  —  " 

Dunstan  stooped  again,  and  again  picked  up  some 
thing  from  under  his  foot. 

"  I  am  only  a  churl,"  he  said  as  he  stood  upright 
again,  "but  I  can  risk  my  life  like  you  for  a  lady, 
and  if  I  win,  I  would  rather  win  a  sword  than  a  bit 
of  finery." 

"  You  shall  win  more  than  that,"  Gilbert  answered, 
his  tone  changing.  "  But  if  you  know  of  anything  to 
do,  in  the  name  of  God  do  it  quickly,  for  it  is  time." 

"Good-by,  sir." 

Gilbert  heard  the  two  words,  and  while  they  were 
still  in  his  ears,  half  understood,  Dunstan  had  slipped 
away  among  the  squires  and  knights  around  them, 
and  was  lost  to  sight. 

One  minute  had  not  passed  when  a  wild  yell  rent 
the  air,  with  fierce  words,  high  and  clear,  which 
thousands  must  have  heard  at  the  very  first,  even 
had  they  not  been  repeated  again  and  again. 

"The  King  has  betrayed  us!  The  King  is  a 
traitor  to  the  Cross!  " 

At  the  very  instant  a  stone  flew  straight  from 
Dunstan's  unerring  hand,  and  struck  the  King's 
horse  fairly  between  the  eyes,  upon  the  rich  frontlet, 
heavy  with  gold  embroidery.  The  charger  reared 


228  VIA  CRUCIS 

up  violently  to  his  height,  and  before  he  had  got  his 
head  down  to  plunge,  Dunstan's  furious  scream  split 
the  air  again,  and  the  second  stone  struck  the  King 
himself  full  on  the  breast,  and  rolled  to  the  saddle 
and  then  to  the  ground. 

"  The  King  has  betrayed  us  all!  Traitor!  Traitor  1 
Traitor!  " 

There  never  yet  was  a  feverish,  terror-struck 
throng  of  men,  suddenly  disheartened  by  the  un- 
answer^ble  evidence  of  a  great  defeat  by  which  they 
themselves  might  be  lost,  that  would  not  take  up  the 
cry  of  "  Traitor  !  "  against  their  leaders.  Before  he 
raised  his  voice,  Dunstan  had  got  among  men  who 
knew  him  neither  by  sight  nor  by  name,  and  the  second 
stone  had  not  sped  home  before  he  was  gone  again  in 
a  new  direction,  silent  now,  with  compressed  lips,  his 
inscrutable  dark  eyes  looking  sharply  about  him. 
He  had  done  his  work,  and  he  knew  what  might 
happen  to  him  if  he  were  afterwards  recognized. 
But  none  heeded  him.  The  uproar  went  surging 
towards  the  King  with  a  rising  fury,  like  the  turn  of 
the  tide  in  a  winter  storm,  roaring  up  to  the  break 
ing  pitch,  and  many  would  have  stoned  him  and 
torn  him  to  pieces  ;  but  there  were  many  also,  older 
and  cooler  men,  who  pressed  round  him,  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  with  swords  drawn  and  flashing  in  the 
sunlight,  and  faces  set  to  defend  their  liege  lord  and 
sovereign.  In  an  instant  the  flying  Germans  were 
forgotten;  and  the  Emperor  and  his  army,  and  the 
meaning  of  the  Holy  War  and  of  the  Cross  itself, 
were  gone  from  men's  minds  in  the  fury  of  riot  on 
the  one  side,  in  the  stern  determination  of  defence 


VIA  CRUCis  229 

on  the  other.  The  vast  weight  of  men  rolled  for 
ward,  pushed  by  those  behind,  forcing  the  King  and 
those  who  stood  by  him  to  higher  ground.  In  dire 
distress,  and  almost  hopeless  of  extricating  her  gentle 
troop  from  destruction,  the  Queen  heard  the  new 
tumult  far  away,  and  felt  the  close  press  yielding  on 
one  side.  The  word  '  traitor '  ran  along  like  a  quick 
echo  from  mouth  to  mouth,  repeated  again  and  again, 
sometimes  angrily,  sometimes  in  tones  of  unbelief, 
but  always  repeated,  until  there  was  scarcely  one  man 
in  a  hundred  thousand  whose  lips  had  not  formed  the 
syllables.  Eleanor  saw  her  husband  and  his  com 
panions  with  their  drawn  swords  moving  in  the  air, 
on  the  knoll ;  she  heard  the  stinging  word,  and  a  hard 
and  scornful  look  lingered  in  her  face  a  moment. 
She  knew  that  the  accusation  was  false,  that  it  was 
too  utterly  empty  to  have  meaning  for  honest  men  ; 
yet  she  despised  her  husband  merely  because  a  mad 
man  could  cast  such  a  word  at  him;  and  in  the 
security  of  power  and  dominions  far  greater  than 
his,  as  well  as  of  a  popularity  to  which  he  could 
never  attain,  she  looked  upon  him  in  her  heart  as  a 
contemptible  kinglet,  to  marry  whom  had  been  her 
most  foolish  mistake.  And  it  had  become  the  object 
of  her  life  to  put  him  away  if  she  could. 

For  a  few  moments  she  looked  on  across  the  sea 
of  heads  that  had  already  begun  to  move  away.  Her 
mare  was  quieter  now  in  the  larger  space,  being  a 
docile  creature,  but  many  of  the  other  ladies'  horses 
were  still  plunging  and  kicking,  though  so  crowded 
that  they  could  do  each  other  little  hurt.  She  saw 
how  the  knights  were  forcing  their  way  to  the  King's 


230  VIA   CBUCIS 

side,  and  how  the  great  herd  of  footmen  resisted  them, 
while  the  word  of  shame  rose  louder  in  their  yells ; 
and  though  she  despised  the  King,  the  fierce  instinct 
of  the  great  noble  against  the  rabble  ran  through  her 
like  a  painful  shock,  and  her  face  turned  pale  as  she 
felt  her  anger  in  her  throat. 

There  was  room  now,  for  the  great  throng  was 
rushing  from  her,  spreading  like  a  river,  and  dividing 
at  the  hillock  where  it  met  the  knights'  swords,  and 
flowing  to  right  and  left  along  the  edge  of  the  lake. 
The  Queen  looked  behind  her,  to  see  what  ladies  were 
nearest  to  her,  and  she  saw  her  standard  bearer, 
Anne  of  Auch,  fighting  her  rearing  charger  ;  and 
next  to  her,  quiet  and  pale,  on  a  vicious  Hungarian 
gelding  a  great  deal  too  big  for  her,  but  which  she 
seemed  to  manage  with  extraordinary  ease,  sat  Bea 
trix  de  Curboil,  a  small,  slim  figure  in  a  delicate 
mail  that  looked  no  stronger  than  a  silver  fishing-net, 
her  shape  half  hidden  by  her  flowing  mantle  of  soft 
olive-green  with  its  scarlet  cross  on  the  shoulder,  and 
wearing  a  silver  dove's  wing  on  her  light  steel  cap. 

Her  eyes  met  Eleanor's  and  lightened  in  sympathy 
of  thought,  so  that  the  other  understood  in  a  flash. 
The  Queen's  right  hand  went  up,  lifting  the  lance 
high  in  air;  half  wheeling  to  the  left,  and  turning 
her  head  still  farther,  she  called  out  to  those  behind 
her:  — 

"  Ladies  of  France !  The  rabble  is  at  the  King  — 
Forward ! " 

An  instant  later,  the  fleet  Arab  mare  was  galloping 
straight  for  the  crowd,  and  Eleanor  did  not  look  be 
hind  her  again,  but  held  her  lance  before  her  and  a 


VIA   CRUCIS  231 

little  raised,  so  that  it  was  just  ready  to  fall  intc 
rest.  Directly  behind  her  rode  the  Lady  Anne,  the 
shaft  of  the  standard  in  the  socket  of  her  stirrup,  her 
arm  run  through  the  thong,  so  that  she  had  both 
hands  free;  she  sat  erect  in  the  saddle,  her  horse 
already  at  a  racing  gallop,  neck  out,  eyes  up,  red 
nostrils  wide,  delighting  in  being  free  from  restraint ; 
and  Beatrix  was  there,  too,  like  a  feather  on  her  big 
brown  Hungarian,  that  thundered  along  like  a  storm, 
his  wicked  ears  laid  straight  back,  and  his  yellowish 
young  teeth  showing  under  his  quivering  lip.  But 
of  all  the  three  hundred  ladies  none  followed  them. 
The  others  had  not  understood  the  Queen's  command, 
or  had  not  heard,  or  could  not  manage  their  horses, 
or  were  afraid.  And  the  three  women  rode  at  the 
mob,  that  was  now  four  hundred  yards  away. 

Straight  they  rode,  heedless  and  unaware  that  they 
were  alone,  nor  counting  how  little  three  women  could 
do  against  thousands.  But  the  people  heard  the 
hammering  hoofs  of  the  two  big  horses,  and  the 
Arab's  light  footfall  resounded  quickly  and  steadily, 
as  the  ringers  of  a  dancer  striking  the  tambourine. 
Hundreds  glanced  back  to  see  who  rode  so  fast,  and 
thousands  turned  their  heads  to  know  why  the  others 
looked ;  and  all,  seeing  the  Queen,  pressed  back  to 
right  and  left,  making  way,  partly  in  respect  for  her 
and  much  in  fear  for  themselves.  Far  up  the  rising 
ground,  the  riot  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun ; 
the  men-at-arms  drew  back  in  shame,  and  many  tried 
to  hide  their  faces,  lest  they  should  be  known  again. 
The  tide  of  human  beings  divided  before  the  swiftly 
riding  women,  as  the  cloud-bank  splits  before  the 


232  VIA  CRUCIS 

northwest  wind  in  winter,  and  the  white  mare  sped 
like  a  ray  of  light  between  long  wavering  lines  of 
rough  faces  and  gleaming  arms. 

The  Queen  glanced  scornfully  to  each  side  as  she 
passed  in  a  gale,  and  the  dear  sense  of  power  soothed 
her  stirred  pride.  Still  the  line  opened,  and  still  she 
rode  on,  scarcely  rising  and  sinking  with  the  mare's 
wonderful  stride.  But  the  way  that  was  made  for  hei 
was  not  straight  to  the  King  now ;  the  throng  was 
more  dense  there,  and  the  people  parted  as  they 
could,  so  that  the  three  ladies  had  to  follow  the  only 
open  passage.  Suddenly,  before  them,  there  was 
an  end,  where  the  rolling  ground  broke  away 
sharply  in  a  fall  of  forty  feet  to  the  edge  of  the 
lake  below.  The  heads  of  the  last  of  the  crowd 
who  stood  at  the  brink  were  clear  and  distinct 
against  the  pale  sky.  The  Queen  could  not  see  the 
water,  but  she  felt  that  there  was  death  in  the  leap. 
Her  two  companions  looked  beyond  her  and  saw 
also. 

Eleanor  dropped  her  lance  quietly  to  the  right,  so 
that  it  should  not  make  her  followers  fall,  and 
with  hands  low  and  weight  thrown  back  in  the 
deep  saddle  she  pulled  with  all  her  might.  Her 
favourite  black  horse,  broken  to  her  own  hand,  would 
have  obeyed  her  ;  she  might  have  been  able  to  stop 
Beatrix's  great  Hungarian,  for  her  white  hands  were 
as  strong  as  a  man's  ;  but  the  Arab  mare  was  trained 
only  to  the  touch  of  an  Arab  halter  and  the  deep 
caress  of  an  Arab  voice,  and  at  the  first  strain  of  the 
cruel  French  bit  she  threw  up  her  head,  swerved, 
caught  the  steel  in  her  teeth,  and  shot  forward  again 


VIA  CEUCIS  233 

at  twice  her  speed.  Eleanor  tried  in  vain  to  wrench 
the  mare's  head  to  one  side,  into  the  shrinking  crowd. 

The  Queen's  face  turned  grey,  but  her  lips  were 
set  and  her  eyes  steady,  as  she  looked  death  in  the 
face.  Behind  her,  Beatrix's  little  gloved  hands  were 
like  white  moths  on  her  steadily  jerking  bridle,  the 
Hungarian's  terrific  stride  threw  up  the  sods  behind 
her,  and  there  was  a  hopeless,  far-away  look  in  her 
face,  almost  like  a  death-smile.  Only  the  strong 
dark  woman  of  the  South  seemed  still  to  have 
control  over  her  horse,  and  he  slowly  slackened  his 
speed,  and  fell  a  little  behind  the  other  two. 

In  the  fearful  danger  the  crowd  was  silent  and 
breathless,  and  many  men  turned  pale  as  they  saw. 
But  none  moved. 

One  second,  two  seconds,  three  seconds,  and  to 
every  second  two  strides  ;  the  end  of  three  women's 
lives  was  counted  by  the  wild  hoof-strokes.  The 
race  might  last  while  one  could  count  ten  more. 

Gilbert  Warde  had  at  first  tried  to  press  nearer 
to  the  King,  but  he  saw  that  it  was  useless,  because 
the  latter  was  already  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the 
nobles  and  knights.  So  he  had  turned  back  to  fac.e 
the  crowd  with  those  about  him,  and  with  the  flat  of 
his  blade  he  had  beaten  down  some  few  swords  which 
men  had  dared  to  draw ;  but  he  had  wounded  no  one, 
for  he  knew  that  it  was  a  madness  which  must  pass 
and  must  be  forgiven. 

Then  he  found  himself  with  his  horse  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  open  track  made  by  the  dividing  people, 
and  he  looked  and  saw  the  Queen,  and  Beatrix  three 
or  four  lengths  behind  her,  as  the  matchless  Arab 


234  VIA  CEUCIS 

gained  ground  in  the  race.  He  had  been  above  the 
deep  fall  and  understood.  Instantly  he  was  on  his 
feet  on  the  turf,  a  step  out  in  the  perilous  way;  and 
he  wished  that  he  had  the  strength  of  Lancelot  in  his 
hands,  with  the  leap  of  a  wild  beast  in  his  feet,  but 
his  heart  did  not  fail  him. 

In  one  second  he  lived  an  hour.  His  life  was 
nothing,  but  he  could  only  give  it  once,  to  save 
one  woman,  and  she  must  be  Beatrix,  let  such  chance 
befall  Eleanor  as  might.  Yet  Eleanor  was  the 
Queen,  and  she  had  been  kind  to  him,  and  in  the 
fateful  instant  of  doom  his  eyes  were  on  her  face ; 
he  would  try  to  save  the  other,  but  unconsciously  he 
made  one  step  forward  again  and  stood  waiting  in 
midway.  One  second  for  a  lifetime's  thought,  one 
for  the  step  he  made,  and  the  next  was  the  last.  He 
could  hear  the  rush  of  the  wind,  and  Eleanor  was 
looking  at  him. 

In  that  supreme  moment  her  face  changed,  and  the 
desperate  calm  in  her  eyes  became  desperate  fear  for 
him  she  loved  even  better  than  she  knew. 

"Back!"  she  cried,  and  the  cry  was  a  woman's 
agonized  scream,  not  for  herself. 

With  all  her  might,  but  utterly  in  vain,  she 
wrenched  sideways  at  the  mare's  mouth  and  she 
closed  her  eyes  lest  she  should  see  the  man  die.  He 
had  meant  to  let  her  pass  to  her  death,  for  the  girl 
was  dearer  to  him,  and  he  had  gathered  his  strength 
like  a  bent  spring  to  serve  him.  But  he  saw  her  eyes 
and  heard  her  cry,  and  in  the  flash  of  instinct  he  knew 
she  loved  him,  and  that  she  wished  him  to  save  him 
self  rather  than  her;  and  thereby  is  real  love  proved 
on  the  touchstone  of  fear. 


VIA    CRUCIS  235 

As  he  sprang,  he  knew  that  he  had  no  choice, 
though  he  did  not  love  her.  The  fall  of  her  mare, 
if  his  grip  held,  might  stop  the  rest.  He  sprang; 
he  saw  only  the  Arab's  bony  head  and  the  gold 
on  the  bridle,  as  both  his  hands  grasped  it.  Then 
he  saw  nothing,  but  yet  he  held,  and,  dead,  he  would 
have  held  still,  as  the  steel  jaws  of  the  hunter's 
trap  hold  upon  the  wolf's  leg-bone.  He  knew  that 
he  was  thrown  down,  dragged,  pounded,  bruised, 
twisted  like  a  rope  till  his  joints  cracked.  But  he 
held,  and  felt  no  pain,  while  earth  and  sky  whirled 
with  him.  It  was  not  a  second;  it  was  an  hour,  a 
year,  a  lifetime;  yet  he  could  not  have  loosed  his 
hands,  had  he  wished  to  let  go,  for  there  were  in  him 
the  blood  and  the  soul  of  the  race  that  never  yielded 
its  grip  on  whatsoever  it  held. 

It  lasted  a  breathing-space,  while  the  mare  plunged 
wildly  and  staggered,  and  her  head  almost  touched 
the  ground  and  dragged  the  man's  hands  on  the  turf; 
then  as  his  weight  wrenched  her  neck  back,  her 
violent  speed  threw  her  hind  quarters  round,  as  a 
vane  is  blown  from  the  gale.  At  the  same  instant 
the  great  Hungarian  horse  was  upon  her,  tried  to  leap 
her  in  his  stride,  struck  her  empty  saddle  with  his 
brown  chest,  and  fell  against  her  and  upon  her  with 
all  his  enormous  weight,  and  the  two  rolled  over 
each  other,  frantically  kicking.  The  standard  bearer's 
horse,  less  mad  than  the  others  and  some  lengths 
behind,  checked  himself  cleverly,  and  after  two  or 
three  short,  violent  strides,  that  almost  unseated  his 
rider,  planted  his  fore  feet  in  the  turf  and  stood  stock- 
still,  heaving  and  trembling.  The  race  was  over. 


236  VIA  CRUCIS 

With  the  strength  and  instinct  of  the  born  rider, 
Eleanor  had  slipped  her  feet  from  the  stirrups  and 
had  let  herself  be  thrown,  lifting  herself  with  her 
hands  on  the  high  pommel  and  vaulting  clear  away. 
She  fell,  but  was  on  her  feet  before  any  man  of  the 
dazed  throng  could  help  her.  She  saw  Gilbert  lying 
his  full  length  on  his  side,  his  body  passive,  but  his 
arms  stretched  beyond  his  head,  while  his  gloved 
hands  still  clenched  upon  the  bridle  and  were  pulled 
from  side  to  side  by  the  mare's  faintly  struggling 
head.  His  eyes  were  half  open  toward  the  Queen, 
but  they  were  pale  and  saw  nothing.  The  Hunga 
rian  had  rolled  half  upon  his  back,  little  hurt,  and 
the  pommels  of  the  saddle  under  him  kept  him  from 
turning  completely  over. 

Beatrix  lay  like  one  dead.  She  had  been  thrown 
over  the  Arab's  back,  striking  her  head  on  the  turf, 
and  the  mare  in  her  final  struggle  had  rolled  upon 
her  feet.  The  light  steel  cap  had  been  forced  down 
over  her  forehead  in  spite  of  its  cushioned  lining,  and 
the  chiselled  rim  had  cut  into  the  flesh  so  that  a  little 
line  of  dark  blood  was  slowly  running  across  the 
white  skin ;  and  her  white  gloved  hands  were  lying 
palm  upward,  half  open  and  motionless.  The  Queen 
scarcely  glanced  at  her. 

Many  men  sprang  forward  when  the  danger  was 
past,  and  they  dragged  Beatrix  out  and  began  to  get 
her  horse  upon  his  feet.  Eleanor  knelt  by  Gilbert 
and  tried  to  take  his  fingers  from  the  bridle,  but 
could  not,  so  that  she  had  to  loose  the  buckle  from 
the  long  bars  of  the  bit.  Her  hands  chafed  his 
temples  softly,  and  she  bent  lower  and  blew  upon 


VIA  CBUCIS  237 

his  face,  that  her  cool  breath  might  wake  him.  There 
were  drops  of  blood  on  his  forehead  and  on  his  chin, 
his  cloth  tunic  was  torn  in  many  places,  and  the 
white  linen  showed  at  the  rents;  but  Eleanor  saw 
only  the  look  in  his  face,  serene  and  strong  even  in 
his  unconsciousness,  while  in  the  dream  of  his  swoon 
he  saved  her  life  again. 

In  that  moment,  knowing  that  he  could  not  see 
her,  she  thought  not  of  her  own  face  as  she  gazed 
upon  his,  nor  of  hiding  what  she  felt ;  and  the  thing 
she  felt  was  evil,  and  it  was  sweet.  But  suddenly 
there  was  life  in  his  look,  with  a  gentle  smile,  and 
the  strained  fingers  were  loosed  with  a  sigh,  and  a 
long-unused  word  came  from  his  lips. 

"Mother!" 

Eleanor  shook  her  beautiful  head  slowly.  Then 
Gilbert's  face  darkened  with  understanding  and  the 
old  pain  clutched  at  his  heart  sharply,  even  before 
the  keen  bodily  hurt  awoke  in  his  wrung  limbs.  All 
at  once  thought  came,  and  he  knew  how,  in  a  quick 
fall  of  his  heart,  he  had  forgotten  Beatrix  and  had 
almost  given  his  life  to  save  the  Queen.  As  if  he 
had  been  stung,  he  started  and  raised  himself  on 
one  hand,  though  it  was  as  if  he  forced  his  body 
among  hot  knives. 

"She  is  dead!  "  he  cried,  with  twisting  lips. 

"No  —  you  saved  us  both." 

The  words  came  soft  and  clear,  as  Eleanor  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  shoulder  to  quiet  him,  and  watched 
the  change  as  the  agony  in  his  eyes  faded  to  relief 
and  brightened  to  peace. 

"Thank  God!" 


238  VIA  CRUCIS 

He  sank  upon  her  arm,  for  he  was  much  bruised. 
But  her  face  changed,  too,  and  she  suffered  new 
things,  because  in  her  there  was  good  as  well  as  evil-, 
for  as  she  loved  him  more  than  before  he  had  saved 
her,  so  she  would  give  him  more,  if  she  might,  even 
to  forgetting  herself. 

And  so,  for  a  few  moments,  she  knelt  and  watched 
him,  heedless  of  the  people  about  her,  and  scarcely 
seeing  a  dark  man  whom  she  had  never  noticed  before, 
and  who  bent  so  low  that  she  could  not  see  his  face, 
quietly  loosening  his  master's  collar  and  then  feel 
ing  along  his  arms  and  legs  for  any  bone  hurt  there 
might  be. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  Queen,  at  last,  gently, 
as  to  one  who  was  helping  him  she  loved. 

"His  man,"  answered  Dunstan,  laconically,  with 
out  looking  up. 

"Take  care  of  him  and  bring  me  word  of  him," 
she  answered,  and  from  a  wallet  she  gave  him  gold, 
which  he  took,  silently  bending  his  head  still  lower 
in  thanks. 

He,  too,  had  saved  her  that  day,  and  knew  it, 
though  she  did  not. 

She  stood  up  at  last,  gathering  her  mantle  round 
her.  Less  than  ten  minutes  had  passed  since  she 
iad  thrown  up  her  hand  and  called  to  her  ladies  to 
follow  her.  Since  then  the  world  had  been  in  her 
self  and  on  fire,  leaving  no  room  for  other  thoughts ; 
but  now  the  crowd  had  parted  wide,  and  the  King 
was  coming  towards  her,  slow  and  late,  to  know 
whether  she  were  hurt,  for  he  had  seen  her  ride. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  when  he  had  dismounted,  "I 


VIA  CRUCIS  239 

thank  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  which  deigned  to  hear 
the  prayers  I  was  continually  offering  up  for  your 
safety  while  your  life  was  threatened  by  that  dan 
gerous  animal.  We  will  render  thanks  in  divine 
services  during  ten  days  before  proceeding  farther, 
or  during  a  fortnight  if  you  prefer  it." 

"Your  Grace,"  said  Eleanor,  coldly,  "is  at  liberty 
to  praise  Heaven  by  the  month  if  it  seems  good  to 
you.  But  for  that  poor  Englishman,  who  lies  there 
in  a  swoon,  and  who  caught  my  horse's  bridle  at  the 
risk  of  his  life,  you  might  have  been  ordering  masses 
for  my  soul  instead  of  for  my  bodily  preservation. 
They  would  have  been  much  needed  had  I  been  killed 
just  then." 

The  King  crossed  himself  devoutly,  half  closed 
his  eyes,  bent  himself  a  little,  and  whispered  a  short 
prayer. 

"It  would  be  better,"  observed  the  Queen,  "to 
move  on  at  once  and  support  the  Emperor." 

"  It  has  pleased  God  that  the  army  of  the  Emperor 
should  be  totally  destroyed,"  answered  the  King, 
calmly.  "The  Emperor  himself  will  be  here  in  a 
few  hours,  unless  he  has  perished  with  the  rest  of  his 
knights,  slain  by  the  Seljuk  horsemen  who  are  pur 
suing  the  fugitives." 

"  The  more  reason  why  we  should  save  those  who  are 
still  alive.  My  army  shall  march  to-morrow  at  day 
break  —  your  Grace  may  stay  behind  and  pray  for  us. " 

She  turned  from  him  scornfully.  Dunstan  and  some 
foot-soldiers  had  made  stretchers  with  lances  and  pikes 
and  were  just  beginning  to  carry  Beatrix  and  Gilbert 
away,  northward,  in  the  direction  of  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHEN  Gilbert  learned  from  his  man  that  Beatrix 
was  badly  hurt  and  suffering  great  pain,  he  turned 
his  face  away  and  bit  hard  on  the  saddle-bag  that 
served  him  for  a  pillow.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  Dunstan  had  just  come  back  from  making  in 
quiries  in  the  ladies'  lines,  half  a  mile  away. 

Nothing  could  have  been  simpler  than  his  round 
tent,  which  had  a  single  pole  and  covered  a  circle 
four  or  five  paces  in  diameter.  The  dry  ground  had 
been  sprinkled  with  water  and  beaten  with  mallets 
so  as  to  harden  it  as  much  as  possible.  Gilbert  and 
his  two  men  slept  on  smoke-cured  hides  over  which 
heavy  woollen  blankets  were  spread,  almost  as  thick 
as  carpets,  hand-woven  in  rough  designs  of  vivid 
blue  and  red,  the  coarse  work  of  shepherds  of  Au- 
vergne,  but  highly  valued. 

Against  the  pole  the  saddles  were  piled  one  upon 
another,  Gilbert's  own  on  top,  with  its  curved  pom 
mels;  Dunstan's,  covered  with  plaited  lines  for 
binding  on  rolled  blankets  and  all  sorts  of  light 
packages  and  saddle-bags  before  and  behind  the 
rider's  seat;  and  the  mule's  pack-saddle,  on  which 
little  Alric  rode,  perched  upon  the  close-bound  bun 
dles,  when  the  road  was  fair.  During  most  of  the 
journey  the  sturdy  Saxon  had  trudged  along  on  foot, 
as  Dunstan  did  also,  but  it  was  not  seemly  that  a 

240 


VIA  CRTJCIS  241 

man  of  gentle  blood  should  be  seen  walking  on  the 
march,  except  of  great  necessity. 

Above  the  saddles  Gilbert's  mail  hung  by  the 
neck,  with  a  stout  staff  run  through  both  arms  to 
stretch  it  out,  lest  dampness  should  rust  it;  also  his 
other  armour  and  his  sword  were  fastened  up  like  an 
ancient  trophy,  with  bridles  and  leathern  bottles  and 
other  gear.  Beside  the  saddles,  on  the  ground, 
the  shining  copper  kettle  held  three  bright  brass 
bowls,  well-scoured  wooden  trenchers,  a  long  wooden 
ladle,  an  iron  skewer,  and  three  brass  spoons,  the 
simple  necessities  for  cooking  and  eating.  Forks 
had  not  been  thought  of  in  those  days. 

Gilbert  lay  on  his  back  and  turned  his  face  away 
from  his  man.  He  was  bruised  and  scratched,  and 
his  head  ached  from  being  struck  on  the  ground  when 
the  mare  had  dragged  him;  but  he  was  whole  and 
sound  in  limb,  and  Dunstan  had  stretched  his  joints 
and  pressed  his  bruises  with  a  wise  touch  that  had 
in  it  something  of  Oriental  skill.  He  lay  wrapped 
in  a  long  robe  of  coarse  white  linen,  as  thick  as  wool 
—  a  sensible  Greek  garment  which  he  had  got  in 
Constantinople.  The  afternoon  was  warm,  and 
though  the  flap  of  the  tent  was  raised  and  stretched 
out  like  an  awning,  there  was  little  air,  and  the 
place  smelt  of  the  leathern  trappings  and  of  hot 
canvas;  and  through  the  side  to  which  he  turned 
his  face  Gilbert  could  see  little  dazzling  sparks  of 
rays  where  the  sun  was  beating  full  upon  the  out 
side. 

He  wished  that  in  the  mad  rush  of  the  Arab  the 
life  might  have  been  pounded  out  of  him,  and  that 


242  VIA  CRUCIS 

he  might  never  have  waked  to  know  what  he  had 
done;  for  although  in  his  sober  senses  he  did  not 
love  the  Queen,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  loved 
her  in  the  moment  when  he  sprang  to  save  her 
life,  and  that  he  could  never  again  forget  the  look 
of  fear  for  him  in  her  eyes  and  her  cry  of  terror  for 
his  sake.  All  that  Beatrix  had  said  to  him  in  the 
garden  at  Constantinople  came  back  to  him  now; 
until  now.  he  had  disbelieved  it  all,  as  a  wild  and 
foolish  impossibility,  for  he  was  over-modest  and 
diffident  of  himself  in  such  matters. 

Beatrix  would  certainly  have  been  killed  but  for 
the  chance  which  had  thrown  the  mare  across  the 
narrow  way,  and  he  had  risked  his  life  to  save 
another  woman.  It  mattered  not  that  the  other  was 
the  Queen ;  that  was  not  the  reason  why  he  had  leapt 
upon  the  bridle.  He  had  done  it  for  a  glance  of 
her  eyes,  for  the  tone  of  her  voice,  as  it  were  in  an 
instant  of  temptation,  when  he  had  stepped  out  of 
the  rank  to  face  destruction  for  a  dearer  sake.  It 
seemed  like  a  crime,  and  it  proved  against  his  own 
belief  that  he  loved  what  he  loved  not.  Had  he  let 
the  Queen  pass,  and  had  he  stopped  Beatrix's  horse 
instead,  she  might  have  been  unhurt,  and  one  other 
brave  man  might  have  saved  Eleanor  at  the  brink. 
Indeed,  he  thought  of  the  sad  face  with  its  pathetic 
little  smile,  drawn  with  pain  and  hot  upon  the  pillow, 
by  his  fault;  and  he  thought  with  greater  fear  of  the 
danger  that  some  deep  hurt  might  leave  the  slender 
frame  bent  and  crippled  for  life. 

But  meanwhile  the  news  had  spread  quickly  that 
it  was  the  silent  Englishman,  neither  knight  nor 


VIA  CBUCIS  243 

squire,  who  had  saved  the  Queen,  and  outside  the 
tent  men  stopped  and  talked  of  the  deed,  and  asked 
questions  of  Alric,  who  had  picked  up  enough 
Norman-French  to  give  tolerably  intelligible  an 
swers.  At  first  came  soldiers,  passing  as  they  went 
to  fetch  water  from  the  lake,  and  again  as  they  came 
back  with  copper  vessels  filled  to  the  brim  and  drip 
ping  upon  their  shoulders,  they  set  down  their  bur 
dens  and  talked  together.  Presently  came  a  great 
knight,  the  Count  of  Montferrat,  brother  to  the 
Count  of  Savoy,  who  had  been  at  Ve'zelay,  where 
Gilbert  had  talked  with  him.  He  walked  with 
slow  strides,  his  bright  eyes  seeming  to  cut  a 
way  for  him,  his  long  mantle  trailing,  his  soft  red 
leather  boots  pushed  down  in  close  creases  about 
his  ankles,  his  gloved  hand  pressing  down  the  cross- 
hilt  of  his  sword,  so  that  the  sheath  lifted  his  man 
tle  behind  him.  On  each  side  of  him  walked  his 
favourite  knights,  and  their  squires  with  them,  all 
on  their  way  to  the  King's  quarters,  where  a  council 
of  war  was  to  be  held,  since  it  was  known  how  the 
great  German  host  had  been  routed,  and  that  the 
Emperor  himself  might  follow  Duke  Frederick  of 
Suabia.  This  Duke  had  already  reached  the  camp, 
after  beating  off  the  Seljuk  skirmishers  who  had 
harassed  his  retreat  and  driven  in  the  first  fright- 
struck  Germans. 

The  soldiers  and  grooms  made  way  for  the  noble, 
but  he  asked  which  might  be  the  tent  of  Gilbert 
Warde,  the  Englishman;  so  they  pointed  to  the 
raised  flap,  where  Alric  stood  with  his  sturdy  legs 
apart,  under  the  shadow  of  Gilbert's  long  shield, 


244  VIA  CRTJCIS 

which  was  hanging  from  a  lance  stuck  in  the  ground. 
The  shield  was  blank,  though  many  gentlemen 
already  painted  devices  on  theirs,  and  sovereign 
lords  displayed  the  heraldic  emblems  of  their  houses 
long  before  their  vassals  began  to  use  their  coats- 
of-arms  on  their  shields  in  war.  But  Gilbert  would 
bear  neither  emblem  nor  device  till  some  great  deed 
should  make  him  famous. 

The  Count  of  Montf  errat  glanced  at  the  blank  shield 
thoughtfully,  and  asked  little  Alric  of  what  family 
his  master  was;  and  when  he  heard  that  his  fore 
fathers  had  been  with  Robert  the  Devil  when  he 
died,  and  with  William  at  Hastings,  and  with  God 
frey  at  Jerusalem,  and  that  his  father  had  died 
fighting  for  Maud  against  the  usurper,  but  that 
Gilbert  had  not  knighthood  for  all  that,  he  wondered 
gravely.  Yet  knowing  that  he  was  hurt  and  ill  at 
ease,  the  Count  would  not  go  in,  but  gave  Alric  a 
piece  of  gold  and  bade  him  greet  the  young  Lord 
of  Stoke  and  tell  him  that  the  Count  of  Montferrat 
craved  better  acquaintance  with  him  when  he  should 
be  recovered. 

He  went  on  his  way,  and  was  not  gone  far  when 
the  Count  of  Savoy  and  the  lord  of  fated  Coucy 
came  strolling  side  by  side,  with  their  trains  of 
knights  and  squires,  on  their  way  to  the  council. 
And  having  seen  Montferrat  stop  at  the  tent,  they  did 
likewise,  and  asked  the  same  questions,  giving  Alric 
money  out  of  respect  for  his  master's  brave  deed 
and  good  name,  according  to  custom.  Many  others 
came  after  them,  great  and  small,  and  the  great  gave 
the  groom  money,  and  the  poor  men-at-arms  asked 


VIA  CBUCIS  245 

him  to  drink  with  them  after  supper ;  so  that  his  flat 
leathern  wallet,  which  was  cracking  in  its  creases 
from  having  been  long  empty,  was  puffed  out  and 
hard,  and  weighed  heavily  at  his  belt,  and  as  for 
the  wine  promised  him,  he  might  have  floated  a  boat 
in  it. 

There  was  one  of  the  Greek  guides  who  stood  near 
the  tent,  playing  with  a  string  of  thick  beads,  and 
keeping  behind  Alric ;  and  when  there  was  a  crowd 
around  him  this  Greek  slipped  nearer,  with  his  razor 
in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  stealthily  tried  to 
cut  the  thongs  by  which  the  wallet  was  fastened. 
So  the  Saxon  turned  quickly  and  smote  him  be 
tween  the  eyes  with  his  fist,  and  it  was  an  hour 
before  the  Greek  came  to  himself  and  crawled  away, 
for  nobody  would  lift  him.  But  Alric  laughed  often 
as  he  sucked  the  trickling  blood  from  his  knuckles, 
and  though  he  was  a  little  man  and  young,  the 
soldiers  looked  at  him  with  respect,  and  many  more 
of  them  asked  him  to  drink. 

So  on  that  afternoon  Gilbert's  reputation  grew 
suddenly,  as  a  bright  lily  that  has  been  long  in  bud 
under  a  wet  sky  breaks  out  like  a  flame  in  the  first 
sunshine;  and  the  days  were  over  when  he  must 
trudge  along  unnoticed  in  the  vast  throng  of 
nobles,  with  his  two  men  and  his  modest  baggage. 

Meanwhile  the  council  was  held  in  the  King's 
tent  of  state,  within  which  three  hundred  nobles  sat 
at  ease  after  the  King  himself  had  taken  his  place 
on  the  throne,  with  the  Queen  on  his  right  hand. 
There  the  red-bearded  Frederick  of  Suabia,  nephew  to 
Conrad  and  famous  afterward  as  the  Emperor  Bar- 


246  VIA  CEUCIS 

barossa,  stood  up  and  told  his  tale :  how  the  wild  Ger 
man  knights  had  truly  forced  their  leaders  to  take  the 
mountain  road  and  fight  the  Seljuks  at  a  disad 
vantage;  how  the  Seljuks  appeared  and  disappeared 
again  from  hour  to  hour,  falling  upon  their  prey 
at  every  turn,  reddening  every  pass  with  blood,  and 
leaving  half-killed  men  among  the  slain  to  wonder 
whence  the  swift  smiters  had  come  and  whither  they 
were  gone.  He  himself  had  wounds  not  healed, 
and  he  told  how,  day  by  day,  the  mad  bravery  of 
the  Germans,  and  the  fury  of  his  Black  Forest 
men-at-arms,  had  risen  again  and  again  to  very 
desperation,  to  sink  before  evening  in  a  new  defeat; 
until,  at  last,  as  the  Seljuk  swords  still  killed  and 
killed,  a  terror  had  fallen  upon  the  host  in  the 
passes,  and  men  had  thrown  away  their  armour  and 
fled  like  rats  from  a  burning  granary,  so  that  their 
leaders  could  not  hold  them.  He,  with  a  few  strong 
helpers,  had  covered  his  flying  troops,  and  the  brave 
Emperor  Conrad,  giant  in  strength,  the  greatest 
swordsman  of  the  world,  was  even  now  fighting  at 
the  hindmost  rear  of  the  army  to  save  whom  he 
could. 

It  had  been  madness,  he  told  them  all,  to  try  the 
mountain  ways.  To  Palestine  there  were  two  roads, 
and  they  might  choose  between  them,  either  following 
the  long  coast  round  Asia  Minor  to  the  Gulf  of  Cyprus, 
or  else,  going  down  to  the  Propontis,  they  might  get 
ships  from  Constantinople  and  sail  to  the  ports  of 
Syria.  The  short  way  was  death,  and  though  death 
were  nothing,  it  meant  failure  and  destruction  to 
the  Christian  power  in  Jerusalem  and  Antioch. 


VIA  CRUCIS  247 

Thus  he  spoke,  and  the  King  and  Queen  and  all 
the  great  nobles  heard  him  in  silence.  There  were 
the  great  Counts  of  Flanders  and  Toulouse,  of 
Savoy,  of  Montferrat  and  Dreux  and  Blois,  and  the 
lords  of  Lusignan,  of  Coucy,  of  Courtenay,  and  of 
Bourbon,  and  the  Bishops  of  Toul  and  Metz,  and 
all  the  great  knights  of  Gascony  and  Poitou,  with 
many  others  of  high  name  and  good  blood,  who  heard 
the  red-bearded  Duke  speak.  But  when  he  had 
finished,  none  answered  him,  and  the  French  King  sat 
on  his  throne,  repeating  the  prayers  for  the  dead  in 
a  low  voice.  But  Eleanor's  eyes  flashed  fire  and  her 
gloved  hand  strained  impatiently  upon  the  carved 
arm  of  the  chair  of  state. 

"  Requiem  eternam  dona  eis, "  muttered  the  King. 

"Amen!"  responded  Eleanor,  in  a  clear,  con 
temptuous  voice.  "And  now  that  prayers  are  over, 
let  us  do  deeds.  Let  us  mount  and  ride  forth  at 
dawn  to  meet  the  Emperor,  and  help  him  in  his  need 
at  the  last.  Let  us  ride  in  even  order,  sending  out 
scouts  and  skirmishers  before  us,  and  keeping  good 
watch,  armed  and  ready  at  all  moments.  Then, 
when  all  are  safe  who  are  alive,  we  will  return  here, 
that  the  Germans  may  rest  themselves  by  this  good 
lake;  and  afterward  we  will  set  forth  again  by  the 
safest  road,  cautiously,  not  wasting  upon  skirmishes 
the  strength  we  shall  need  hereafter  for  a  great 
victory." 

"The  Emperor  will  surely  be  here  to-morrow, 
without  our  help,"  said  the  King,  in  manifest  dis 
content.  "It  is  of  no  use  to  go  and  meet  him." 

"If  he   is   so   near,  let  us    mount  to-night,  this 


248  VIA  CRUCIS 

very  hour,  rather  than  have  on  us  the  shame  of  lying 
idly  here  while  men  who  wear  the  cross  are  in  need 
of  us." 

The  King  said  nothing,  but  at  Eleanor's  words  a 
low  murmur  of  assent  ran  through  the  assembly 
of  brave  men,  from  those  at  her  feet  to  those 
farthest  from  her;  and  the  impatient  touch  of  each 
hand  on  sword  or  dagger,  at  the  thought  of  fight, 
made  a  sound  of  softly  moving  steel  and  leather 
and  buckle,  which  one  may  only  hear  among  soldiers. 

Eleanor  stood  up,  untired  by  her  terrible  ride, 
unshaken  by  her  fall,  her  eyes  full  of  the  bright 
ness  of  pride.  It  was  her  daily  food  and  her 
perpetual  necessity  to  have  the  better  of  the  King 
in  the  eyes  of  men,  whether  the  matter  were  great  or 
small.  She  stood  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show  all 
her  beauty  and  strength  to  the  world,  and  the  low 
sun  streamed  through  the  wide  entrance  to  the  tent 
and  fell  full  upon  her  face  and  her  unblinking 
eyes. 

"My  lords  and  barons,  gentlemen  of  Guienne  and 
France,  our  journey  is  over  to-day,  our  battles  begin 
to-morrow  I  Our  brothers  are  in  danger,  the  enemy 
is  in  sight!  Men  of  the  Cross,  to  arms!  " 

"  To  arms ! "  rang  the  reply  in  many  voices,  both 
high  and  deep,  like  a  major  chord  sounding  from 
the  heart. 

As  she  rose,  the  nobles  had  risen,  too,  and  only 
the  King  kept  his  seat,  his  pale  face  bent,  his  hands 
folded  upon  the  hilt  of  the  sword  that  stood  between 
his  knees.  The  Queen  said  no  more,  and,  without 
glancing  at  her  husband,  as  if  she  alone  were  sover- 


VIA  CRUCIS  249 

eign,  she  descended  the  two  steps  from  the  throne 
to  the  floor  of  the  tent.  Three  knights,  one  of  Gas- 
cony,  one  of  Poitou,  and  one  of  her  own  Guienne, 
who  were  her  guard  of  honour,  followed  her  as  she 
passed  out,  smiling  to  the  great  nobles  on  her  right 
arid  left.  And  many  showed  that  they  desired  to 
speak  with  her  —  first  among  them  the  Count  of 
Montferrat. 

"Madam," he  said,  when  he  had  bowed  low  before 
her,  "I  praise  God  and  the  Holy  Trinity  that  your 
Grace  is  alive  to-day.  I  pray  that  you  will  deign 
to  accept  the  homage  and  felicitations  of  Mont 
ferrat  ! " 

"Of  Bourbon,  Madam! "  cried  a  voice  beside  her. 

"  Of  Savoy,  your  Grace !  "  said  another. 

"  Of  Coucy,  of  Courtenay,  of  Metz  —  "  the  voices 
all  rang  at  once,  as  the  lords  pressed  round  her,  for 
she  had  not  been  seen  since  she  had  left  the  field 
after  her  fall. 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  answered,  with  a  careless  smile. 
"  But  you  should  thank  also  the  man  who  saved  my 
life,  if  you  love  me." 

"Madam,  we  have,"  replied  Montferrat.  "And  if 
your  Grace  will  but  let  me  have  the  man,  I  will 
do  him  much  honour  for  your  Highness 's  sake." 

"He  is  no  vassal  of  mine,"  Eleanor  said.  "He 
is  a  poor  English  gentleman,  cheated  of  his  lands, 
a  friend  of  young  Henry  Plantagenet." 

"The  friend  of  a  boy!"  The  Count  laughed 
lightly. 

But  Eleanor  grew  thoughtful  on  a  sudden,  for 
beyond  her  rare  beauty  and  her  splendid  youth,  and 


250  VIA  CRUCIS 

within  her  world  of  impatient  passion,  there  were 
wisdom  and  knowledge  of  men. 

"A  boy?  Yes,  he  may  be  fourteen  years  old, 
not  more.  But  there  are  boys  who  are  not  children, 
even  in  their  cradles,  and  there  are  men  who  are 
nothing  else  —  their  swaddling-clothes  outgrown, 
and  their  milk  teeth  cast,  but  not  their  whimpering 
and  fretting." 

The  nobles  were  silent,  for  she  spoke  over-boldly 
and  meant  the  King,  as  they  knew. 

"As  for  this  Englishman,"  she  continued  after 
an  instant's  pause,  "he  is  not  mine  to  give  you,  my 
lord  Count.  And  as  for  doing  him  honour  for  his 
brave  deed,  though  I  would  gladly  please  you,  I 
should  be  loth  to  let  you  do  my  duty  for  your 
pleasure." 

She  smiled  again  very  graciously,  for  she  was 
glad  that  men  should  praise  Gilbert  Warde  to  her ; 
and  it  was  strangely  pleasant  to  think  that  no  one 
guessed  half  of  what  she  would  give  him  if  he 
would  take  it.  For  among  the  nobles  there  were 
great  lords,  goodly  men  and  young,  who  dreamed  of 
her  fair  face,  but  would  not  have  dared  to  lift  up 
their  eyes  to  her. 

So  she  passed  out,  with  her  knights  behind  her, 
and  most  of  the  lords  and  barons  followed  her  at 
a  distance,  leaving  the  King  within. 

When  she  was  gone  he  rose  slowly,  and  giving 
his  sword  to  the  chamberlain  who  stood  waiting,  he 
went  to  his  chapel  tent,  with  downcast  eyes  and 
clasped  hands,  as  if  walking  in  a  solemn  procession. 
A  little  bell  rang,  the  sun  was  low,  and  it  was  the 


VIA   CRUCIS  251 

hour  of  the  Benediction.  The  King  knelt  down 
before  the  rich  altar,  and  when  he  had  prayed  ear 
nestly  for  strength  and  courage,  and  for  wisdom  to 
win  the  war  of  the  Cross,  he  prayed  from  the  bottom 
of  his  unhappy  heart  that,  if  it  were  the  will  of 
Heaven,  he  might  by  some  means  be  delivered  from 
the  woman  of  Belial  who  marred  his  life  and  bur 
dened  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

To  the  south  side  of  the  camp  the  Germans  came 
by  thousands,  all  that  day  and  far  into  the  night, 
weary,  half  starved,  on  jaded  beasts  that  could  hardly 
set  one  foot  before  the  other,  or  on  foot  themselves, 
reeling  like  men  drunk,  and  almost  blind  with  ex 
haustion.  But  the  panic  had  not  lasted  long,  for 
the  few  score  of  Seljuk  riders  who  had  fallen  upon 
the  van  of  the  retreating  column  for  the  last  time  had 
been  finally  scattered  by  the  Duke  of  Suabia,  so  that 
the  remainder  of  the  army  came  in  with  a  show  of 
order,  bringing  the  greater  part  of  the  baggage. 
The  Seljuks  had  not  attempted  to  carry  away  plun 
der,  which  would  have  hampered  them  in  their 
dashing  charges  and  instant  retreats. 

Last  of  all,  before  daybreak,  came  the  Emperor 
himself,  covering  the  rear  of  his  army  with  chosen 
men,  untired,  though  his  great  horse  was  staggering 
under  him,  alert  and  strong  as  if  he  had  not  been 
in  the  saddle  the  better  part  of  four  days  and  nights. 
He  seemed  a  man  of  iron ;  and  few  could  ride  with 
him,  or  watch  with  him,  or  fight  with  him. 

When  the  sun  rose,  the  great  standard  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire  waved  before  the  imperial  tent,  and 
though  he  had  not  rested,  Conrad  knelt  beside  King 
Louis  at  early  mass.  Far  to  southward  the  German 
tents  rose  in  long  lines  by  the  shore  of  the  lake, 

252 


VIA   CKUCIS  253 

where  Eleanor  had  displayed  her  troop  on  the 
previous  day,  and  countless  little  squads  of  men 
with  mules  came  and  went  between  the  camp  and 
the  distant  walled  city  of  Niceea.  In  the  French 
lines,  where  the  first  preparations  had  been  made  for 
marching,  men  were  again  unpacking  their  belong 
ings  ;  for  word  had  gone  round  at  midnight  that  the 
Emperor  was  safe,  and  needed  no  help,  and  would 
be  in  the  camp  in  the  morning. 

Then  there  was  secret  rejoicing  among  the  ladies, 
and  those  who  had  no  bruise  nor  scratch  from 
yesterday's  accidents  called  their  tirewomen  and 
spent  happy  hours,  holding  up  their  little  silver 
mirrors  to  their  hair,  and  holding  them  down  to  see 
the  clasp  at  the  throat,  and  trying  some  of  the  silks 
and  embroideries  which  they  had  received  as  gifts 
from  the  Greek  Emperor.  It  was  almost  a  miracle 
that  none  but  Beatrix  should  have  been  gravely 
hurt,  but  many  were  a  little  bruised  and  much  tired, 
and  altogether  inclined  to  ask  sympathy  of  the 
rest,  receiving  visits  in  their  tents  and  discussing 
the  chances  of  the  war  and  the  beauty  of  Constanti 
nople,  until  they  began  to  discuss  one  another,  after 
which  the  war  was  not  spoken  of  again  on  that  day. 

Then  came  the  Queen  with  her  attendants,  from 
her  tent  in  the  midst  of  the  ladies'  lines,  pitched  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  King's ;  and  leaving  outside 
those  who  were  with  her,  she  went  in  and  sat 
down  by  Beatrix's  bedside. 

The  girl  was  very  pale  and  lay  propped  up  by 
pillows,  her  eyelids  half  shut  against  the  light, 
though  there  was  little  enough  under  the  thick 


254  VIA  CRUCIS 

double  canvas  and  a  brazier  of  glowing  woodcoals  made 
the  tent  almost  too  warm.  A  great  Norman  woman 
with  yellow  hair  crouched  beside  her,  slowly  fanning 
her  face  with  a  Greek  fan  of  feathers.  The  Queen 
stood  still  a  moment,  for  she  had  entered  softly,  and 
Beatrix  had  not  opened  her  eyes,  nor  had  the  woman 
known  her  in  the  dimness.  But  when  she  recog 
nized  the  Queen,  the  maid's  jaw  dropped  and  her 
hand  ceased  to  move.  Eleanor  took  the  fan  from 
her,  and  with  a  gesture  bade  her  make  way,  and  then 
sat  down  in  her  place  to  do  her  duty. 

Hearing  the  rustle  of  skirts  and  feeling  that 
another  hand  fanned  her,  the  sick  girl  moved  a 
little,  but  did  not  open  her  eyes,  for  her  head  hurt 
her,  so  that  she  feared  the  light. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  in  the  voice  of  pain. 

"Eleanor,"  answered  the  Queen,  softly. 

Still  fanning,  she  took  the  beautiful  little  white 
hand  that  lay  nearest  to  her  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
Beatrix  opened  her  eyes  in  wonder,  for  though  the 
Queen  was  kind,  she  was  not  familiar  with  her  ladies. 
The  girl  started,  as  if  she  would  have  tried  to  rise. 

"No,"  said  Eleanor,  quieting  her  like  a  child, 
"no,  no!  You  must  not  move,  my  dear.  I  have 
come  to  see  how  you  are  —  there,  there!  I  did  not 
mean  to  startle  you !  " 

She  smoothed  the  soft  brown  hair,  and  then,  with 
a  sudden  impulse,  kissed  the  pale  forehead,  and 
fanned  it,  and  kissed  it  again,  as  if  Beatrix  had 
been  one  of  her  own  little  daughters  instead  of  being 
a  grown  woman  not  very  far  from  her  own  age. 

"I  thank  your  Grace,"  said  Beatrix,  faintly. 


KISSED   THE   PALE   FOREHEAD 


VIA  CRUCIS  255 

"  We  are  nearer  than  thanks  since  yesterday.  Or 
if  there  were  to  be  thanking,  it  should  be  from  me 
to  you  who  followed  me  with  one  other,  when  three 
hundred  stayed  behind.  And  we  are  closer  than 
that,  for  one  man  saved  us  both." 

She  stopped  and  looked  round.  The  Norman 
woman  was  standing  respectfully  near  the  door  of 
the  tent,  with  eyes  cast  down  and  hands  hidden 
under  the  folds  of  her  skirt,  which  were  drawn 
through  her  girdle  in  the  servants'  fashion. 

"Go,"  said  Eleanor,  quietly.  "I  will  take  care 
of  your  mistress  for  a  while.  And  do  not  stay  at 
the  door  of  the  tent,  but  go  away. " 

The  woman  bent  her  head  low  and  disappeared. 

"Yes,"  Beatrix  said,  when  they  were  alone,  "I 
saw  Gilbert  Warde  stop  your  horse,  and  yours 
stopped  mine.  He  saved  us  both." 

There  was  silence,  and  the  fan  moved  softly  in 
the  Queen's  hand. 

"You  have  loved  him  long,"  she  said  presently, 
in  a  tone  that  questioned. 

Beatrix  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  on  her  smooth 
young  forehead  two  straight  lines  made  straight 
shadows  that  ended  between  her  half-closed  eyes. 
At  last  she  spoke,  with  an  effort. 

"Madam,  as  you  have  a  soul,  do  not  take  him 
from  me! " 

She  sighed  and  withdrew  her  hand  from  Eleanor's, 
as  if  by  instinct.  The  Queen  did  not  start,  but  for 
an  instant  her  eyes  gathered  light  into  themselves 
and  her  mouth  hardened.  She  glanced  at  the  weak 
girl,  broken  and  suffering,  and  looking  so  small 


256  VIA  CBUCIS 

beside  her,  and  she  was  angry  that  Gilbert  should 
have  chosen  anything  so  pitiful  against  her  own 
lofty  beauty.  But  presently  her  anger  ceased,  not 
because  it  was  unopposed,  but  because  she  was  too 
large-hearted  for  any  meanness. 

"Forget  that  I  am  the  Queen,"  she  said  at  last. 
"Only  remember  that  I  am  a  woman  and  that  we 
two  iove  one  man." 

Beatrix  shivered  and  moved  uneasily  on  her  pil 
low,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  throat  as  if  something 
choked  her. 

"  You  are  cruel !  "  Her  voice  would  not  serve  her 
for  more  just  then,  and  she  stared  at  the  roof  of  the 
tent. 

"Love  is  cruel,"  answered  Eleanor,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  suddenly  the  hand  that  held  the  fan  dropped  upon 
her  knee,  and  her  eyes  looked  at  it  thoughtfully. 

But  Beatrix  roused  herself.  There  was  more 
courage  and  latent  energy  in  the  slight  girl  than 
any  one  dreamed.  Her  words  came  clearly. 

"Yours  is  —  not  mine!  For  his  sake  you  call 
yourself  a  woman  like  me,  but  for  his  sake  only. 
Is  your  face  nothing,  is  your  power  nothing,  is  it 
nothing  that  you  can  hide  me  from  him  at  your 
pleasure,  or  let  me  see  him  as  you  will?  What  is 
any  one  to  you,  who  can  toss  a  king  aside  like  a 
broken  toy  when  he  thwarts  you,  who  can  make 
war  upon  empires  with  no  man's  help,  if  you  choose? 
Is  Gilbert  a  god  that  he  should  not  yield  to  you? 
Is  he  above  men  that  he  should  not  forget  me,  and 
go  to  you,  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  daring,  and  the  most  powerful  —  to  you, 


VIA   CRTTCIS  257 

Eleanor  of  Guienne,  Queen  of  France?  You  have 
all;  you  want  that  one  thing  more  which  is  all  I 
have !  You  are  right  —  love  is  cruel !  " 

The  Queen  listened  in  silence,  too  generous  still 
to  smile  at  the  girl,  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  hurt. 

"A  man  has  P  right  to  choose  for  himself,"  she 
answered  when  Beatrix  paused  at  last. 

"Yes,  but  you  take  that  right  from  him.  You 
thrust  a  choice  upon  him  —  that  is  your  cruelty." 

"How?" 

"Look  at  me  and  look  at  yourself.  Would  any 
man  think  twice  in  choosing?  And  yet  —  "  a  faint 
smile  flickered  in  the  mask  of  pain  —  "  in  Constanti 
nople  —  in  the  garden  —  " 

She  stopped,  happy  for  a  moment  in  the  memory 
of  his  defence  of  her.  The  Queen  was  silent  and 
faintly  blushed  for  her  cruel  speech  on  that  day. 
She  could  have  done  worse  deeds  and  been  less 
ashamed  before  herself.  But  Beatrix  went  on. 

"Besides,"  she  said,  turning  her  suffering  eyes 
to  Eleanor's  face,  "your  love  is  sinful,  mine  is  not." 

The  Queen's  look  darkened  suddenly.  This  was 
different  ground. 

"Leave  priests'  talk  to  priests,"  she  answered 
curtly. 

"It  will  soon  be  the  talk  of  other  men  besides 
priests,"  reproved  Beatrix. 

"  For  that  matter,  are  you  better  ?  "  retorted  the 
Queen.  "  Have  you  not  told  me  that  your  father  has 
married  his  mother  ?  You  are  far  within  the  forbidden 
degrees  of  affinity.  You  cannot  marry  Gilbert  Warde 
any  more  than  I  can.  Where  is  the  difference  ?  " 


258  VIA   CRTJCIS 

"  You  know  it  as  well  as  I. "  The  young  gir\ 
turned  her  face  away.  "You  know  as  well  as  I 
that  the  Church  can  pass  over  what  is  a  mere  legal 
regulation  to  hinder  marriages  made  only  for  for 
tune's  sake.  I  am  not  so  ignorant  as  you  think. 
And  you  know  what  your  love  for  Gilbert  Warde 
is,  before  God  and  man  !  " 

The  blood  rose  in  her  white  face  as  she  spoke. 
After  that  there  was  silence  for  some  time ;  but 
presently  the  Queen  began  to  fan  Beatrix  again, 
and  mechanically  smoothed  the  coverlet.  There 
are  certain  things  which  a  womanly  woman  would 
do  for  her  worst  enemy  almost  unconsciously,  and 
Eleanor  was  far  from  hating  her  rival.  Strong  and 
unthwarted  from  her  childhood,  and  disappointed 
in  her  marriage,  she  had  grown  to  look  upon  her 
self  as  a  being  above  laws  of  heaven  or  earth,  and 
answerable  to  no  one  for  her  deeds.  Feminine  in 
heart  and  passion,  she  was  manlike  in  mind  and  in 
her  indifference  to  opinion.  Save  for  Gilbert,  she 
liked  Beatrix ;  yet,  as  matters  stood,  she  both  looked 
upon  her  as  an  obstacle  and  was  sorry  for  her  at 
the  same  time.  Not  being  in  any  way  confident 
of  Gilbert's  love  herself,  the  girl  she  pitied  and  half 
liked  was  as  much  her  rival  as  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  Europe  could  have  been.  She  was  made 
up  of  strong  contrasts — generous  yet  often  unfor 
giving  ;  strong  as  a  man  yet  capricious  as  a  child  ; 
tender  as  a  woman,  and  then  in  turn  sudden,  fierce, 
and  dangerous  as  a  tigress. 

Beatrix  made  a  feeble  gesture  as  if  she  would  not  be 
fanned  by  the  hand  that  was  against  her,  but  the  Queen 


VIA  CRUCIS  259 

paid  no  attention  to  the  refusal.  The  silence  lasted 
long,  and  then  she  spoke  quietly  and  thoughtfully. 

"  You  have  a  right  to  say  what  you  will,"  she 
began,  "  for  I  sat  down  beside  you,  as  one  woman 
by  another,  and  you  have  taken  me  at  my  word. 
Love  is  the  very  blood  of  equality.  You  blame 
me,  and  I  do  not  blame  you,  though  I  brought  up 
the  Church's  rule  against  your  love.  You  are  right 
in  all  you  say,  and  I  am  sinful.  I  grant  you  that 
freely,  and  I  will  grant  also  that  if  I  had  my  due 
I  should  be  doing  penance  on  my  knees  instead  of 
defending  my  sins  to  you  if  indeed  I  am  defending 
them.  But  do  you  think  that  our  bad  deeds  are 
weighed  only  against  the  unattainable  perfection  of 
saints'  and  martyrs'  lives,  and  never  at  all  against 
the  splendid  temptations  that  are  the  royal  garments 
of  sin  ?  God  is  just,  and  justice  weaves  a  fair  judg 
ment.  It  is  not  an  unchangeable  standard.  A 
learned  Greek  in  Constantinople  was  telling  me  the 
other  day  a  story  of  one  Procrustes,  a  terrible  high 
way  robber.  He  had  a  bed  which  he  offered  to 
those  he  took  captive,  on  condition  that  they  should 
exactly  fit  its  length  ;  and  if  a  man  was  too  long,  the 
robber  hewed  off  his  feet  by  so  much,  but  if  he  was 
too  short,  he  stretched  him  on  a  rack  until  he  was 
tall  enough.  If  God  were  to  judge  me  as  He  judges 
you,  by  a  ruled  length  of  virtue,  alike  for  all  and 
without  allowance  for  our  moral  height,  God  would 
not  be  God,  but  Procrustes,  a  robber  of  souls  and  a 
murderer  of  them." 

"You  speak  very  blasphemously,"  said  Beatrix, 
in  a  low  voice. 


260  VIA   CRUCIS 

"  No ;  I  speak  justly.  You  and  I  both  love  one 
man.  In  you,  love  is  virtue,  in  me  it  is  sin.  You 
blame  me  with  right,  but  you  blame  me  too  much. 
You  tell  me  that  I  am  beautiful,  powerful,  the  Queen 
of  France,  and  it  is  true.  But  even  you  do  not  tell 
me  that  I  am  happy,  for  you  know  that  I  am  not." 

"And  therefore  you  would  rob  me  of  all  I  have, 
to  make  your  happiness,  when  you  have  so  much 
that  I  have  not  !  Is  that  your  justice  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Eleanor,  almost  sadly,  "  it  is  not 
justice.  It  is  my  excuse  to  God  and  man,  before 
whom  you  say  I  am  condemned." 

The  girl  roused  herself  again,  and  though  it  was 
sharp  pain  to  move,  she  raised  her  weight  upon  her 
elbow  and  looked  straight  into  the  Queen's  eyes. 

"  You  argue  and  you  make  excuses,"  she  said 
boldly.  "  I  ask  for  none.  I  ask  only  that  you 
should  not  take  the  one  happiness  I  have  out  of  my 
life.  You  say  that  we  are  speaking  as  woman  to 
woman.  What  right  have  you  to  the  man  I  love  ? 
No,  do  not  answer  me  with  another  dissertation  on 
the  soul.  Woman  to  woman,  tell  me  what  right 
you  have  ?  " 

"  If  he  loves  me,  is  that  no  right  ?  " 

"  If  he  loves  you  ?  Oh,  no  I  He  does  not  love 
you  yet  I  " 

"  He  saved  me  yesterday  —  not  you,"  answered 
the  Queen,  cruelly,  and  she  remembered  his  eyes. 
"  Does  a  man  risk  his  life  desperately,  as  he  did,  for 
the  woman  he  loves,  or  for  another,  when  both  are 
in  like  danger?" 

"  It  was  not  you,  it  was  the  Queen  he  saved.     It 


VIA   CRUCIS  261 

is  right  that  a  loyal  man  should  save  his  sovereign 
first.  I  do  not  blame  him.  I  should  not  have 
blamed  him  had  I  been  more  hurt  than  I  am." 

"  I  am  not  his  sovereign,  and  he  is  no  vassal  of 
mine."  Eleanor  smiled  coldly.  "  He  is  an  English 
man." 

"'You  play  with  words,"  answered  Beatrix,  as  she 
would  have  spoken  to  an  equal. 

"  Take  care  !  " 

They  faced  each  other,  and  on  the  instant  the  fierce 
pride  of  royalty  sprang  up,  as  at  an  insult.  But 
Beatrix  was  brave  —  a  sick  girl  against  the  Queec 
of  France. 

"  If  you  are  not  his  sovereign,  you  are  not  mine," 
she  said.  "And  were  you  ten  times  my  Queen, 
there  can  be  no  fence  of  royalty  between  you  and 
me  from  this  hour,  or  if  there  is,  you  are  doubly 
playing  with  the  meaning  of  what  your  lips  say. 
Are  you  to  be  a  woman  to  me,  a  woman,  at  one 
moment,  and  a  sovereign  to  me,  a  subject,  at  the 
next  ?  Which  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"A  woman,  then,  if  nothing  more.  And  as  a 
woman,  I  tell  you  that  I  will  have  Gilbert  Warde 
for  myself,  body  and  soul." 

The  girl's  eyes  lightened  suddenly.  Men  said  that 
in  her  mother's  veins  there  had  run  some  of  the 
Conqueror's  blood,  and  his  great  oath  sprang  to  her 
lips  as  she  answered  :  — 

"  And  by  the  splendour  of  God,  I  tell  you  that 
you  shall  not !  " 

"  Then  it  is  a  duel  between  us,"  the  Queen  said, 
and  she  turned  to  go. 


262  VIA  CRUCIS 

"  To  death,"  answered  the  girl,  as  her  head  sank 
back  upon  the  pillows,  pitifully  weak  and  tired  in 
her  aching  body,  but  dauntless  in  spirit. 

Eleanor  crossed  the  carpeted  floor  of  the  tent 
slowly  toward  the  door.  She  had  not  made  four 
steps  when  she  stood  still,  looking  before  her.  A 
great  shame  of  herself  came  upon  her  for  what  she 
had  said  —  the  loyal,  generous  shame  of  the  strong 
who  in  anger  has  been  overbearing  with  the  weak. 
She  stood  still,  and  she  felt  as  an  honest  man  does 
who  has  struck  a  fallen  enemy  in  unreasoning  rage. 
It  was  the  second  time  that  she  had  fallen  so  low 
in  her  own  eyes,  and  her  own  scorn  of  herself  was 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

Quickly  she  came  back  to  Beatrix's  side.  The 
girl  lay  quite  still,  with  parted  lips  and  closed  eyes 
that  had  great  black  shadows  under  them.  Her 
small  white  hands  twitched  now  and  then  spasmodi 
cally,  but  she  seemed  hardly  to  breathe.  Eleanor 
knelt  beside  her  and  propped  her  up  higher,  thrust 
ing  one  arm  under  the  pillow  while  she  fanned  her 
with  the  other  hand. 

"  Beatrix  !  "  she  called  softly. 

She  thought  that  the  girl's  eyelids  quivered, 
and  she  called  her  again ;  but  there  was  no  answer, 
nor  any  movement  of  the  hand  this  time,  and 
the  face  was  so  white  and  deathly  that  any  one 
might  have  believed  life  gone,  but  for  the  faintly 
perceptible  breath  that  stirred  the  feathers  of  the 
Greek  fan  when  the  Queen  held  it  close  to  the  lips. 
She  grew  anxious  and  thought  of  calling  the  Nor 
man  serving-woman  and  of  sending  for  her  own 


VIA   CRUCIS 

physician.  But,  in  the  first  place,  she  thought  that 
Beatrix  might  have  only  fainted,  to  revive  at  any 
moment,  in  which  case  she  had  things  to  say  which 
were  not  for  other  ears ;  and  as  for  her  physician, 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that,  although  he  had 
been  in  her  train  five  years,  she  had  never  under  any 
circumstances  had  occasion  to  consult  him,  and  that 
he  was  probably  what  he  looked,  a  solemn  fool  and 
an  ignorant  drencher,  whereas  there  were  younger 
men  with  wise  heads  who  had  followed  the  army  and 
made  a  fat  living  by  concocting  draughts  for  those 
who  overcloyed  themselves  with  Greek  sweetmeats, 
physicians  who  could  make  salves  for  bruises,  who 
knew  the  cunning  Italian  trick  of  opening  a  vein  in 
the  instep  instead  of  in  the  arm,  and  who,  on  occa 
sion,  could  cast  a  judicial  figure  of  the  heavens  and 
interpret  the  horoscope  of  the  day  and  hour. 

But  while  she  hesitated,  Eleanor  brought  water 
from  a  bright  brass  ewer  and  dashed  drops  upon 
the  girl's  face ;  she  found  also  a  cup  with  Greek 
wine  in  it,  that  smelt  of  fine  resin,  and  she  set  it  to 
the  pale  lips  and  held  it  there.  Presently  Beatrix 
opened  her  eyes  a  little,  and  suddenly  she  shuddered 
when  she  saw  Eleanor  and  heard  her  voice  in  the 
deep  stillness. 

"  As  one  woman  to  another  —  I  ask  your  forgive 
ness." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

GILBERT  sat  in  the  door  of  his  tent  at  noon,  the  sun 
shining  down  upon  him  and  warming  him  pleasantly, 
for  the  day  was  chilly,  and  he  was  still  aching.  As 
he  idly  watched  the  soldiers  going  and  coming,  and 
cooking  their  midday  meal  at  the  camp-fires,  while 
Dunstan  and  Alric  were  preparing  his  own,  he  was 
thinking  that  this  was  the  third  day  since  he  had 
saved  the  Queen's  life,  and  that  although  many 
courtiers  had  asked  of  his  condition,  and  had  talked 
with  him  as  if  he  had  done  a  great  deed,  yet  he  had 
received  not  so  much  as  a  message  of  thanks  from 
Eleanor  nor  from  the  King,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he 
had  been  forgotten  altogether.  But  of  Beatrix,  Dun 
stan  told  him  that  she  was  in  a  fever  and  wandering, 
and  the  Norman  woman  had  said  that  she  talked  of  her 
home.  Gilbert  hated  himself  because  he  could  do 
nothing  for  her,  but  most  bitterly  because  he  had 
yielded  to  the  Queen's  eyes  and  to  her  voice  in  the 
instant  of  balanced  life  and  death. 

The  great  nobles  passed  on  their  way  to  their  tents 
from  the  King's  quarters,  where  the  council  met  daily 
to  trace  the  march.  And  still  Gilbert's  shield  hung 
blank  and  white  on  his  lance,  and  he  sat  alone,  with 
out  so  much  as  a  new  mantle  upon  him,  nor  a  sword- 
belt,  nor  any  gift  to  show  that  the  royal  favour  had 
descended  upon  him  as  had  been  expected.  So  some 

264 


VIA  CRUCIS  265 

of  the  nobles  only  saluted  him  with  a  grave  gesture 
in  which  there  was  neither  friendship  nor  familiarity, 
and  some  took  no  notice  of  him,  turning  their  faces 
away,  for  they  thought  that  they  had  made  a  mistake, 
and  that  the  Englishman  had  given  some  grave 
offence  for  which  even  his  brave  action  was  not  a 
sufficient  atonement.  But  he  cared  little,  for  his 
nature  was  not  a  courtier's,  and  even  then  the  Eng 
lish  Normans  were  colder  and  graver  men  than  those 
of  France,  and  more  overbearing  in  arms,  but  less 
self-seeking,  one  against  another,  in  court. 

Dunstan  came  from  behind  the  tent,  where  the  fire 
was,  bringing  food  in  two  polished  brass  bowls,  and 
Gilbert  went  in  to  eat  his  dinner.  Coarse  fare  enough 
it  was,  a  soup  of  vegetables  and  bread,  with  pieces  of 
meat  in  it,  and  little  crumbs  of  cheese,  scraped  off 
with  a  sharp  knife,  and  floating  on  the  thick  liquid ; 
and  then,  in  the  other  bowl,  small  gobbets  of  roasted 
beef  run  by  sixes  on  wooden  skewers  that  were 
blackened  at  the  ends  by  the  fire.  And  it  all  tasted 
of  smoke,  for  the  wood  was  yet  green  on  the  hill 
sides.  But  Gilbert  ate  and  said  nothing,  neither 
praising  nor  blaming,  for  very  often  on  the  long 
march  he  had  eaten  the  dried  bread  of  the  German 
peasants  and  the  unleavened  wheat-cakes  of  the  wild 
Hungarians,  with  a  draught  of  water,  and  had  been 
glad  even  of  that.  Also  on  Fridays  and  Saturdays, 
and  on  the  vigils  of  feast  days,  and  on  most  days  in 
Lent,  he  had  eaten  only  bread  and  boiled  vegetables, 
such  as  could  be  found,  and  the  fasting  reminded  him 
of  the  old  days  in  Sheering  Abbey. 

For  in  his  nature  there  was  the  belief  of  that  age 


266  VIA  CRUCIS 

in  something  far  above  common  desires  and  passions, 
dwelling  in  a  temple  of  the  soul  that  must  be  reached 
by  steps  of  pain ;  there  was  the  spirit  of  men  who 
starved  and  scourged  their  bodies  almost  to  death 
that  their  souls  might  live  unspotted ;  and  the  terri 
bly  primitive  conception  of  every  passional  sin  as 
equal  in  importance  to  murder,  and  only  less  deadly 
than  an  infamous  crime  in  the  semi-worldly  view  of 
knightly  honour,  which  admitted  private  vengeance 
as  a  sort  of  necessity  of  human  nature. 

The  mere  thought  that  he  could  love  the  Queen,  or 
could  have  believed  that  he  loved  her  for  one  instant, 
seemed  ten  thousand  times  worse  than  his  boyish 
love  of  Beatrix  had  once  seemed,  when  he  had  sup 
posed  that  there  was  no  means  of  setting  aside  the 
bar  of  affinity;  and  it  was  right  that  he  should  think 
so.  But  though  temptation  is  not  sin,  he  made  it 
that,  and  accused  himself ;  for  it  was  manifest  that 
the  merest  passing  thrill  of  the  blood,  such  as  he  had 
felt  on  that  night  in  Vezelay,  and  now  again,  must 
be  an  evil  thing,  since  it  had  brought  about  such  a 
great  result  in  a  dangerous  moment. 

These  were  small  things,  and  nice  distinctions,  that 
a  strong  man  should  dwell  on  them  and  bruise  his 
heart  for  its  wickedness.  But  they  were  not  small  if  to 
neglect  them  meant  the  eternity  of  torture  that  awaited 
him  who  looked  upon  his  neighbour's  wife  to  covet 
her.  There  were  among  the  nobles  who  had  taken 
the  Cross  not  a  few  to  whom  the  law  seemed  less 
rigid  and  perdition  less  sure,  and  Eleanor  herself 
gave  her  sins  gentle  names ;  but  the  Englishman  was 
old-fashioned,  and  even  the  good  Abbot  of  Sheering 


VIA  CRUCIS  267 

had  been  struck  by  his  literal  way  of  accepting  all 
beliefs,  in  the  manner  of  a  past  time  when  the  world 
had  trembled  at  the  near  certainty  of  the  Last  Judg 
ment,  expiating  its  misdeeds  by  barefooted  pilgrim 
ages  to  Jerusalem,  and  its  venial  faults  by  cruel 
macerations  of  the  flesh. 

Gilbert,  therefore,  looked  upon  all  bodily  weariness 
and  suffering  and  privation  which  he  chanced  to 
encounter  on  the  march  as  so  much  penance  to  be 
borne  cheerfully  because  it  should  profit  his  soul ; 
and  while  the  young  blood  coursed  in  his  veins,  and 
youth's  bright  lights  danced  in  his  eyes,  the  cold  spirit 
of  the  ascetic  fought  against  the  warm  life  toward 
an  end  which  the  man  felt  rather  than  saw,  and  of 
which  the  profound  melancholy  would  have  appalled 
him,  could  he  have  realized  it. 

As  month  followed  month,  though  his  strength 
increased  upon  him  under  much  labour,  and  though 
his  cheeks  were  tanned  by  sunshine  and  weather,  the 
broad  forehead  grew  whiter  under  his  cap,  and  more 
thoughtful,  and  his  eyes  were  saddened  and  his  fea 
tures  more  spiritual ;  also,  while  he  longed  daily  to 
draw  his  sword  and  strike  great  blows  at  unbeliev 
ers  for  faith's  sake  and  to  the  honouring  of  the  Holy 
Cross,  the  rough  fighting  instinct  of  his  people,  that 
craved  to  see  blood  for  its  redness  and  to  take  the 
world  for  love  of  holding  it,  no  longer  awoke  sud 
denly  in  him,  like  hunger  or  thirst,  at  the  wayward 
call  of  opportunity.  He  could  not  now  have  plucked 
out  steel  to  hew  down  men,  as  he  had  done  on  that 
spring  morning  among  the  flowers  of  the  Tuscan 
valley,  only  because  it  was  good  to  see  the  dazzling 


268  VIA  CRUCIS 

red  line  follow  the  long  quick  sword-stroke,  and  to 
ride  weight  at  weight  to  overthrow  it,  swinging  the 
death-scythe  through  the  field  of  life.  He  wanted 
the  cause  and  the  end  now,  where  once  he  had  de 
sired  only  the  deed,  and  he  had  risen  another  step 
above  the  self  that  had  been. 

He  knew  it,  and  nevertheless,  as  he  sat  still  after 
he  had  eaten  his  midday  meal,  he  saw  that  his  years 
had  been  very  sad  since  his  first  great  sorrow;  and 
each  time  when  he  thought  he  had  gone  forward 
some  strong  thing  had  driven  him  back,  or  some 
great  grief  had  fallen  upon  him,  and  he  himself  had 
almost  been  forced  down.  He  had  been  proud  of 
his  arms  and  his  boyish  skill  at  Faringdon,  and 
before  his  eyes  his  father  had  been  foully  slain ;  he 
had  faced  the  murderer  in  the  cause  of  right,  and  he 
himself  had  been  half  killed  ;  he  had  believed  in  his 
mother  as  in  heaven,  and  she  had  defiled  his  father's 
memory  and  robbed  her  son  of  his  inheritance  ;  he 
had  sought  peace  in  Rome,  and  had  found  madness 
and  strife ;  he  had  desired  to  do  knightly  deeds  and 
had  killed  men  for  nothing  ;  he  loved  a  maiden  with 
a  maiden  heart,  and  at  the  touch  of  a  faithless  woman 
his  blood  rose  in  his  throat,  and  for  a  look  of  hers 
and  a  tone  of  her  voice  he  had  put  forth  his  hands  to 
grapple  with  sudden  death,  forgetting  the  other,  the 
better,  the  dearer. 

So  he  was  thinking,  and  the  door  of  his  tent 
was  darkened  for  a  moment,  so  that  he  looked 
up.  There  stood  one  of  Queen  Eleanor's  attendant 
knights,  in  tunic  and  hose,  one  hand  on  his  sword- 
hilt,  the  other  holding  his  round  cap  in  the  act  of 


VIA  CBUCIS  269 

salutation.  He  was  a  Gascon,  of  middle  height,  spare 
and  elastic  as  a  steel  blade,  dark  as  a  Moor,  -with 
fiery  eyes  and  thin  black  mustaches  that  stuck 
up  like  a  cat's  whiskers.  His  manner  was  exag 
gerated,  and  he  made  great  gestures,  but  he  was  a 
true  man  and  brave.  Gilbert  rose  to  meet  him,  and 
saw  behind  him  a  soldier  carrying  something  small  and 
heavy  on  one  shoulder,  steadying  it  with  his  hand. 

"  The  Lord  of  Stoke  ?  "  the  knight  began  in  a  tone 
of  inquiry. 

"  If  I  had  my  own,  sir,"  answered  the  Englishman, 
"but  I  have  not.  My  name  is  Gilbert  Warde." 

"  Sir  Gilbert  —  "  began  the  Gascon,  bowing  again 
and  waving  the  hand  that  held  his  cap  in  a  tremen 
dous  gesture,  which  ended  on  his  heart  as  if  to  ex 
press  thanks  for  the  information. 

"  No,  sir,"  interrupted  the  other.  "  Of  those  who 
would  have  given  me  knighthood  I  would  not  have 
it,  and  they  of  whom  I  would  take  it  have  not 
offered  it." 

"  Sir,"  answered  the  knight,  courteously,  "  those  of 
whom  you  speak  cannot  have  known  you.  I  come 
from  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Gascony." 

"  The  Duchess  of  Gascony  ?  "  asked  Gilbert,  un 
accustomed  to  the  title. 

The  knight  drew  himself  up  till  he  seemed  to  be 
standing  on  his  toes,  and  his  hand  left  his  sword-hilt 
to  give  his  mustache  a  fierce  upward  twist. 

"  The  Duchess  of  Gascony,  sir,"  he  repeated. 
"  There  are  a  few  persons  who  call  her  Highness  the 
Queen  of  France,  doubtless  without  meaning  to  give 
offence." 


270  VIA   CRUCIS 

Gilbert  smiled  in  spite  of  himself,  but  the  knight's 
eyes  took  fire  instantly. 

"  Do  you  laugh  at  me,  sir  ? "  he  asked,  his  hand 
going  back  to  his  sword,  and  his  right  foot  advancing 
a  little  as  if  he  meant  to  draw. 

"  No,  sir.  I  crave  your  pardon  if  I  smiled,  admir 
ing  your  Gascon  loyalty." 

The  other  was  instantly  pacified,  smiled  too,  and 
waved  his  long  arm  several  times. 

"  I  come,  then,  from  her  Grace  the  Duchess,"  he 
said,  insisting  on  the  title,  "to  express  to  you  her 
sovereign  thanks  for  the  service  you  did  her  the 
other  day.  Her  Grace  has  been  much  busied  by 
the  councils,  else  she  would  have  sent  me  sooner." 

"I  am  most  respectfully  grateful  for  the  mes 
sage,"  answered  Gilbert,  rather  coldly,  "and  I  beg 
you,  sir,  to  accept  my  appreciation  of  the  pains  you 
have  taken  to  bring  it  to  me." 

"  Sir,  I  am  most  wholly  at  your  service,"  replied 
the  knight,  again  laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart. 
"  But  besides  words  the  Duchess  sends  you,  by 
my  hand,  a  more  substantial  evidence  of  her  grati 
tude." 

He  turned  and  took  the  heavy  leather  bag  from 
his  attendant  soldier,  and  offered  it  to  Gilbert,  hold 
ing  it  out  in  his  two  hands,  and  coming  nearer. 
Gilbert  stepped  back  when  he  saw  what  it  was. 
The  money  was  for  a  deed  which  might  have  cost 
Beatrix  her  life.  He  felt  sick  at  the  sight  of  it,  as 
if  it  had  been  as  the  price  of  blood  which  Judas  took. 
His  face  turned  very  pale  under  his  tan,  and  he 
clasped  his  hands  together  nervously. 


VIA   CBUCIS  271 

"No,"  he  said  quickly,  "no,  I  pray  you!  Not 
money  —  thanks  are  enough !  " 

The  knight  looked  at  him  in  surprise  at  first,  and 
then  incredulously,  supposing  that  it  was  only  a  first 
refusal,  for  the  sake  of  ceremony. 

"  Indeed,"  he  answered,  "  it  is  the  Duchess's  com 
mand  that  I  should  present  you  with  this  gift  in  most 
grateful  acknowledgment  of  your  service." 

"And  I  beg  you,  by  your  knighthood,  to  thank 
her  Grace  with  all  possible  respect  for  what  I  can 
not  receive."  Gilbert's  voice  grew  hard.  "  She  is  not 
my  sovereign,  sir,  that  I  should  look  to  her  for  my 
support  in  this  war.  It  pleased  God  that  I  should 
save  a  lady's  life,  but  I  shall  not  take  a  lady's  gold. 
I  mean  no  discourtesy  to  her  Grace,  nor  to  you,  sir.'* 

Seeing  that  he  was  in  earnest,  the  Gascon's  expres 
sion  changed,  and  a  bright  smile  came  into  his  sallow 
face,  for  he  had  found  a  man  after  his  own  heart. 
He  threw  the  heavy  bag  toward  the  soldier,  and  it 
fell  chinking  to  the  floor  before  the  man  could  reach 
it;  and  turning  to  Gilbert  again,  he  held  out  his 
hand  with  less  ceremony  and  more  cordiality  than 
he  had  hitherto  shown. 

"  With  a  little  accent,"  he  said,  "  you  might  pass 
for  a  Gascon." 

Gilbert  smiled  as  he  shook  hands,  for  it  was  clear 
that  the  knight  meant  to  bestow  upon  him  the 
highest  compliment  he  could  put  into  words. 

"  Sir,"  answered  the  Englishman,  "  I  see  that  we 
think  alike  in  this  matter.  I  pray  you,  let  not  the 
Queen  be  offended  by  the  answer  you  shall  give 
her  from  me  ;  but  I  shall  leave  it  to  your  courtesy 


272  VIA  CBUCIS 

and  skill  to  choose  such  words  as  you  think  best,  for 
I  am  a  poor  speaker  of  compliments." 

"The  Duchess  of  Gascony  shall  think  only  the 
better  of  you  when  she  has  heard  me,  sir." 

Thereupon,  with  a  great  gesture  and  a  bow  to 
which  Gilbert  gravely  responded,  the  knight  took 
his  leave  and  went  to  the  door ;  but  then,  suddenly 
forgetting  all  his  manner,  and  with  a  genuine  im 
pulse,  he  turned,  came  back  and  seized  Gilbert's 
hand  once  more. 

"  A  little  accent,  my  friend  1  If  you  only  had  a 
little  accent  I " 

His  wiry  figure  disappeared  through  the  door  a 
moment  later,  and  Gilbert  was  alone.  He  asked 
himself  whether  the  Queen  had  meant  to  insult  him, 
and  he  could  not  believe  it.  But  presently,  as  he 
remembered  all  that  had  happened,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  she  might  be  ashamed  of  having  shown  him 
her  heart  in  a  moment  of  great  danger,  and  now,  as 
if  to  cover  herself,  she  meant  him  to  understand  that 
he  was  nothing  to  her  but  a  brave  man  who  ought  to 
be  substantially  and  richly  rewarded  for  having  risked 
his  life  on  her  behalf. 

Strangely  enough,  the  thought  pleased  him  now, 
as  much  as  the  brutal  offer  of  the  gold  had  outraged 
his  honourable  feeling.  It  was  far  better,  he  reflected, 
that  the  Queen  should  act  thus  and  help  him  to  look 
upon  her  as  a  being  altogether  beyond  his  sphere,  as 
she  really  was.  After  this,  he  thought,  it  would  be 
impossible  and  out  of  the  question  that  any  look  or 
touch  of  hers  could  send  a  thrill  through  him,  like 
little  rivers  of  fire,  from  his  head  to  his  heels.  The 


VIA  CRUCIS  273 

hand  that  had  been  held  out  to  pay  him  money  for 
its  own  life,  must  be  as  cold  as  a  stone  and  as 
unfeeling.  She  was  helping  him  to  be  true. 

He  shook  himself  and  stretched  his  long  arms  as 
if  awaking  from  sleep  and  dreaming.  The  motion 
hurt  him,  and  he  felt  all  his  bruises  at  once,  but  there 
was  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  pain,  that  accorded  with 
his  strange  state  of  heart,  and  he  did  it  a  second 
time  in  order  to  feel  the  pain  once  more. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  knight,  whose  name  was  Gaston  de  Castignac, 
faithfully  fulfilled  Gilbert's  wishes,  using  certain 
ornate  flourishes  of  language  which  the  Englishman 
could  certainly  not  have  invented,  and  altogether 
expressing  an  absolute  refusal  in  the  most  compliment 
ary  manner  imaginable.  The  Queen  bade  him  return 
the  gold  to  her  seneschal  without  breaking  the  leaden 
seal  that  pinched  the  ends  of  the  knotted  strings 
together.  When  she  was  alone,  her  women  being 
together  in  the  outer  part  of  the  tent,  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  white  hands,  as  she  sat,  and  bending  for 
ward,  she  remained  in  that  attitude  a  long  time, 
without  moving. 

It  was  as  Gilbert  had  thought.  In  the  generous 
impulse  that  had  prompted  her  to  ask  Beatrix's  for 
giveness  she  had  done  what  was  hardest  for  her  to  do, 
in  a  sort  of  wild  hope  that,  by  insulting  the  man  who 
had  such  strong  attraction  for  her,  she  might  send  him 
away  out  of  her  sight  forever.  Had  he  accepted  the 
money,  she  would  assuredly  have  despised  him,  and 
contempt  must  kill  all  thoughts  of  love  ;  but  since  he 
refused  it,  he  must  be  angry  with  her,  and  he  would 
either  leave  her  army,  and  join  himself  to  the  Ger 
mans  during  the  rest  of  the  campaign,  or,  at  the  very 
least,  he  would  avoid  her. 

But  now  that  it  was  done  and  he  had  sent  back  the 
274 


VIA  CRUCIS  275 

money  in  scorn,  as  she  clearly  understood  in  spite  of 
her  knight's  flowery  speeches,  she  felt  the  shame  of 
having  treated  a  poor  gentleman  like  a  poor '  servant, 
and  then  the  certainty  that  he  must  believe  her  un 
grateful  began  to  torment  her,  so  that  she  thought  of 
his  face,  and  longed  to  see  him  with  all  her  heart. 
For  Beatrix's  sake  and  her  own  honour  she  would 
not  send  for  him ;  but  she  called  one  of  her  women 
and  sent  for  the  Lady  Anne  of  Auch,  who  bore 
the  standard  of  the  ladies'  troop,  the  same  who  had 
stopped  her  horse  without  a  fall.  In  her  the  Queen 
had  great  faith  for  her  wisdom,  for  she  had  a  man's 
thoughts  with  a  woman's  heart. 

She  came  presently,  tall  and  grave  as  a  stately 
cypress  among  silver  birches  and  shimmering  white 
poplar  trees. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you  to  ask  you  a  question,"  the 
Queen  began,  "  or,  perhaps,  to  ask  your  advice." 

The  Lady  Anne  bowed  her  head,  and  when 
Eleanor  pointed  to  a  folding-stool  beside  her,  she  sat 
down  and  waited,  fixing  her  black  eyes  on  a  distant 
part  of  the  tent. 

"You  saw  that  young  Englishman  who  stopped  my 
horse,"  the  Queen  began.  "  I  wish  to  reward  him. 
I  have  sent  him  five  hundred  pieces  of  gold,  and  he 
has  refused  to  receive  the  gift." 

The  black  eyes  turned  steadily  to  the  Queen's  face, 
gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  looked  away 
again,  while  not  a  feature  moved.  There  was  silence, 
for  Anne  of  Auch  said  nothing  while  Eleanor  waited. 

"What  shall  I  do  now?"  Eleanor  asked  after  a 
long  pause. 


276  VIA  CRUCIS 

"  Madam /'answered  the  dark  lady,  smiling  thought 
fully,  "  I  think  that,  since  you  have  offered  him  gold 
first,  he  would  refuse  a  kingdom  if  you  should  press 
it  upon  him  now,  for  he  is  a  brave  man." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ? "  asked  Eleanor,  almost 
sharply,  and  her  eyes  hardened. 

"  I  have  seen  him  many  times,  but  I  have  never 
spoken  with  him.  We  talk  of  him  now  and  then, 
because  he  is  unlike  the  other  knights,  mixing  little 
with  them  in  the  camp  and  riding  often  alone  on 
the  march.  They  say  he  is  very  poor,  and  he  is 
surely  brave." 

"  What  does  Beatrix  de  Curboil  say  of  him  ?  "  The 
Queen's  voice  was  still  sharp. 

"  Beatrix  ?  She  is  my  friend,  poor  girl.  I  never 
heard  her  speak  of  this  gentleman." 

"  She  is  very  silent,  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  She  is  sometimes  sad,  and  she  has  told  me 
how  her  father  took  a  second  wife  who  was  unkind 
to  her,  and  she  speaks  of  her  own  childhood  as  if  she 
were  the  daughter  of  a  great  house.  But  that  is  all. " 

"  And  she  never  told  you  her  stepmother's  name, 
and  never  mentioned  this  Englishman  ?  " 

"Never,  Madam,  I  am  quite  sure.  But  she  is 
often  very  gay  and  quick  of  wit,  and  makes  us  laugh, 
even  when  we  are  tired  and  hot  after  a  day's  march 
and  are  waiting  for  our  women  ;  and  sometimes  she 
sings  strange  old  Norman  songs  of  Duke  William's 
day,  very  sweetly,  and  little  Saxon  slave  songs  which 
we  cannot  understand." 

"  I  have  never  heard  her  laugh  nor  sing,  I  think," 
said  Eleanor,  thoughtfully. 


VIA   CRTTCIS  277 

"  Slie  is  very  grave  before  your  Grace.  I  have 
noticed  it.  That  may  be  the  English  manner." 

"I  think  it  is."  The  Queen  thought  of  Gilbert, 
and  wondered  whether  he  were  ever  gay.  "  But  the 
question,"  she  continued,  "is  what  am  I  to  do  for 
the  man  ?  " 

She  spoke  coldly  and  indifferently,  but  her  eyes 
were  watching  the  Lady  Anne's  face. 

"  What  should  you  do  yourself  ? "  she  asked,  as 
the  noble  woman  made  no  answer. 

"I  should  not  have  sent  him  gold  first,"  replied 
Anne  of  Auch.  "  But  since  that  cannot  be  undone, 
your  Grace  can  only  offer  him  some  high  honour, 
which  may  be  an  honour  only,  and  not  wealth." 

"  He  is  not  even  a  knight !  " 

"Then  give  him  knighthood  and  honour  too. 
Your  Grace  has  made  knights,  —  there  is  Gaston  de 
Castignac,  —  and  the  fashion  of  receiving  knighthood 
from  the  Church  only,  is  past." 

"  I  have  heard  him  say  that  he  would  have  it  from 
his  own  liege  sovereign,  or  not  at  all.  He  will  not 
even  set  a  device  in  his  shield,  as  many  are  begin 
ning  to  do,  to  show  in  the  field  that  they  are  of  good 
stock." 

"Give  him  one,  then  —  a  device  that  shall  be  a 
perpetual  honour  to  his  house  and  a  memory  of  a 
brave  deed  well  done  for  a  Queen's  sake." 

"  And  then  ?     Shall  that  be  all  ?  " 

"  And  then,  if  he  be  the  man  he  seems,  single  him 
out  for  some  great  thing,  and  bid  him  risk  his  life 
again  in  doing  it  for  the  Holy  Cross,  and  for  your 
Grace's  sake." 


278  VIA  CRUCIS 

"  That  is  good.  Your  counsel  was  always  good. 
What  thing  shall  I  give  him  to  attempt  ?  " 

"  Madam,  the  Germans  have  been  betrayed  by 
the  Greek  Emperor's  Greek  guides,  and  we  our 
selves  have  no  others,  so  that  we  in  turn  shall  be  led 
to  slaughter  if  we  follow  them.  If  it  please  your 
Grace,  let  this  Englishman  choose  such  men  as  he 
trusts,  and  go  ever  before  our  march,  till  we  reach 
Syria,  sending  tidings  back  to  us,  and  receiving 
them,  and  bearing  the  brunt  of  danger  for  us." 

"  That  would  be  indeed  an  honourable  part,"  said 
the  Queen,  thoughtfully,  and  she  turned  slowly  pale, 
careless  of  her  lady's  straight  gaze.  "  He  can'  never 
live  to  the  end  of  it,"  she  added,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  It  is  better  to  die  for  the  Cross  than  to  die  or 
live  for  any  woman's  love,"  said  Anne  of  Auch,  and 
there  was  the  music  of  faith  in  her  soft  tones. 

The  Queen  glanced  at  her,  wondering  how  much 
she  guessed,  and  suddenly  conscious  that  she  herself 
had  changed  colour. 

"And  what  device  shall  I  set  in  this  man's 
shield?"  she  asked,  going  back  to  the  beginning,  in 
order  to  avoid  what  touched  her  too  closely. 

"A  cross,"  answered  Anne.  "Let  me  see  —  why 
not  your  Grace's  own  ?  The  Cross  of  Aquitaine  ?  " 

But  the  Queen  did  not  hear,  for  she  was  dream 
ing,  and  she  saw  Gilbert,  in  her  thoughts,  riding  to 
sure  death  with  a  handful  of  brave  men,  riding  into 
an  ambush  of  the  terrible  Seljuks,  pierced  by  their 
arrows  —  one  in  his  white  throat  as  he  reeled  back 
in  the  saddle,  his  eyes  Ijreaking  in  death.  She 
shuddered,  and  then  started  as  if  waking. 


VIA   CRTJCIS  279 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  was  think 
ing  of  something  else." 

"  I  said  that  your  Grace  might  give  him  the  Cross 
of  Aquitaine  for  a  device,"  answered  the  Lady  of 
Auch. 

Her  quiet  black  eyes  watched  the  Queen,  not  in 
suspicion,  but  with  a  sort  of  deep  and  womanly 
sympathy ;  for  she  herself  had  loved  well,  and  on 
the  eighth  day  after  she  had  wedded  her  husband, 
he  had  gone  out  with  others  against  the  Moors  in 
the  southern  mountains;  and  they  had  brought  him 
home  on  his  shield,  wrapped  in  salted  hides,  and 
she  had  seen  his  face.  Therefore  she  had  taken 
the  Cross,  not  as  many  ladies  had  taken  it,  in  light 
ness  of  heart,  but  earnestly,  seeking  a  fair  death  on 
the  field  of  honour  for  the  hope  of  the  life  to  come. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Queen,  "  he  shall  have  the  Cross  of 
Aquitaine.  Fetch  me  some  gentleman  or  squire  skilled 
with  colours,  and  send  for  the  Englishman's  shield." 

"  Madam,"  said  Anne  of  Auch,  "  I  myself  can  use 
a  brush,  and  by  your  leave  I  will  paint  the  device 
under  your  eyes." 

It  was  no  uncommon  thing  in  that  day  for  a  lady 
of  France  to  understand  such  arts  better  than  men, 
and  Eleanor  was  glad,  and  ordered  that  the  shield 
should  be  brought  quickly,  by  two  of  the  elder  pages 
who  were  soon  to  be  squires. 

But  Alric,  the  groom,  who  lay  in  the  shade  out 
side  Gilbert's  tent,  chewing  blades  of  grass  and  wish 
ing  himself  in  England,  would  not  let  the  messengers 
take  the  shield  from  the  lance  without  authority,  and 
he  called  Dunstan,  who  went  and  asked  Gilbert  what 


280  VIA   CRUCIS 

he  should  do.     So  Gilbert  came  and  stood  in  the  door 
of  his  tent,  and  spoke  to  the  young  men. 

"  We  know  nothing,  sir,  save  that  we  are  bidden 
to  bring  your  shield  to  the  Queen/ 

"  Take  it.  And  you  shall  tell  her  Grace  from  me 
that  I  crave  excuse  if  the  shield  be  of  an  old  fashion, 
.  with  rounded  shoulders,  for  it  was  my  father's  ;  and 
you  shall  say  also  that  she  has  power  to  take  it,  but 
that  I  will  not  sell  it,  nor  take  anything  in  return 
for  it." 

The  two  young  men  looked  at  him  strangely,  as  if 
doubting  whether  he  were  in  his  right  mind.  But 
as  they  went  away  together,  the  one  who  bore  the 
shield  said  to  the  other  that  they  should  not  give 
the  message,  for  it  was  discourteous  and  might  do 
harm  to  themselves.  But  the  other  was  for  telling 
the  truth,  since  they  could  call  Gilbert's  men  to 
witness  of  the  words. 

"  And  if  we  are  caught  in  a  lie,"  he  said,  "  we 
shall  be  well  beaten." 

For  they  were  young  and  were  pages,  not  yet 
squires,  and  still  under  education. 

"  Also  we  shall  be  beaten  if  we  say  things  un- 
courtly  to  the  Queen,"  retorted  the  first. 

"  This  air  smells  of  sticks,"  said  the  other,  as  he 
sniffed,  and  laughed  at  his  jest,  but  somewhat  ner 
vously. 

"  You  shall  speak  for  us,"  concluded  his  companion, 
"  for  you  are  the  truth-teller." 

So  they  came  to  the  Queen,  and  laid  the  blank 
shield  at  her  feet,  and  neither  would  say  anything. 

"  Saw  you  the  gentleman  to  whom  it  belongs  ? " 
she  asked. 


VIA   CRUCIS  281 

**  Yes,  Madam  ! "  they  answered  in  one  breath. 

"  And  said  he  anything  ?    Have  you  no  message  ?  " 

"He  said,  Madam — "  said  one,  and  stopped  short. 

"  Yes,  Madam,  he  said  that  we  should  tell  your 
Grace  —  " 

But  the  page's  courage  failed  him,  and  he  stopped 
also. 

"  What  said  he  ? "  asked  Eleanor,  bending  her 
brows.  "  Speak  out  !  " 

"May  it  please  your  Grace,  the  gentleman  said 
that  it  was  his  father's  shield." 

"  And  that  he  craved  excuse  if  it  were  of  an  old 
fashion,"  added  the  other. 

"  And  that  he  would  not  sell  it,"  concluded  the 
one  who  was  the  bolder  of  the  two. 

Then  he  shrank  back,  and  his  companion  too,  and 
they  seemed  trying  to  get  behind  each  other  ;  for  the 
Queen's  eyes  flashed  wrath,  and  her  beautiful  lips 
parted  a  little  over  her  gleaming  teeth,  that  were 
tightly  closed.  But  in  an  instant  she  was  calm  again, 
and  she  took  money  from  her  wallet  and  gave  each 
page  a  piece  of  gold,  and  spoke  quietly. 

"  You  are  brave  boys  to  give  me  such  a  message," 
she  said.  "  But  if  I  chance  to  find  out  that  you  have 
changed  it  on  the  way,  you  shall  each  have  as  many 
blows  as  there  are  French  deniers  in  a  Greek  bezant 
—  and  I  doubt  whether  any  one  knows  how  many 
there  may  be." 

"  We  speak  truth,  Madam,"  said  the  two,  in  a 
breath,  "and  we  humbly  thank  your  Grace." 

She  sent  them  away,  and  sat  looking  at  the  shield 
at  her  feet,  while  Anne  of  Auch  waited  in  silence. 


282  VIA  CRUCIS 

Eleanor's  eyes  burned  in  her  head,  and  her  hands  were 
cold,  and  would  have  shaken  a  little  if  she  had  not 
held  them  tightly  clasped  together. 

"  It  was  unknightly  of  him  to  say  that,"  she  cried 
at  last,  as  if  it  hurt  her. 

But  her  lady  was  still  silent,  and  the  Queen  turned 
her  hot  eyes  to  her. 

"You  say  nothing.  Was  it  not  unknightly  of 
him  ?  " 

"  Madam,"  answered  Anne  of  Auch,  "  since  you 
wished  to  pay  him  for  your  life,  it  is  little  wonder 
if  he  thinks  you  may  offer  to  buy  his  arms." 

They  said  no  more  for  a  long  time,  and  from  the 
outer  tent  the  sweet  subdued  voices  of  many  women, 
talking  and  laughing  softly  together,  floated  into  the 
silence  like  the  song  of  birds  at  dawn.  At  last  the 
Queen  spoke,  but  it  was  to  herself. 

"He  had  the  right,"  she  said  bitterly,  and  bent 
her  head  a  little,  and  sighed.  "  Paint  me  the  shield, 
Lady  Anne,"  she  added,  a  moment  later,  looking  up 
calmly  once  more.  "  On  a  field  azure,  for  the 
faith  he  keeps,  gild  him  the  cross  flory  of  Aquitaine 
—  for  me  I  " 

She  rose  and  began  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down 
the  tent,  glancing  at  Anne  from  time  to  time.  The 
lady  had  sent  for  her  colours,  ground  on  a  piece  of 
white  marble,  and  a  small  chafing-dish  with  burning 
coals,  in  which  a  little  copper  pot  of  melted  wax  mixed 
with  resin  stood  on  an  iron  tripod.  She  warmed  her 
brush  in  the  wax,  and  took  up  the  costly  blue  on  it, 
and  spread  it  very  dexterously  over  all  the  long  shield. 
When  it  was  cool,  the  resin  made  it  very  hard,  and 


VIA  CRUCIS  283 

with  rule  and  dividers  she  measured  out  the  cross 
with  its  equal  arras,  all  flowered,  and  drew  it  skil 
fully,  while  the  Queen  watched  her  deft  fingers. 
And  last  of  all  she  moistened  the  cross  with  Arabian 
gum,  a  little  at  a  time,  and  laid  strong  gold-leaf  upon 
it  with  a  sharp  steel  instrument,  blowing  hard  upon 
each  leaf  as  soon  as  it  was  laid,  to  press  it  down,  and 
smoothing  it  with  a  hare's-foot.  When  it  was  all 
covered  and  dry,  she  took  a  piece  of  soft  leather 
wrapped  about  her  forefinger,  and  carefully  went 
round  the  outline,  taking  off  the  superfluous  leaf 
that  spread  beyond  the  gummed  part.  She  had 
learned  these  things  from  an  Italian  who  had  come 
to  Auch  to  adorn  the  chapel  of  her  father's  house. 

The  Queen  had  sat  down  long  before  it  was  finished, 
but  her  eyes  followed  the  Lady  Anne's  brush  and  her 
fingers,  while  neither  of  the  women  spoke. 

"It  is  a  fair  shield,"  said  Eleanor,  when  it  was 
done.  "  Lady  Anne,  shall  I  send  it  to  him,  or  shall 
he  come  here  ?  Were  you  in  my  place,  which  should 
you  do  ?  " 

"  Madam,  I  would  send  for  the  Englishman. 
From  your  Grace's  hands  he  cannot  refuse  honour." 

Eleanor  did  not  answer,  but  after  a  moment  she 
rose  and  turned  away. 

"  Nor  death,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  to  herself, 
and  stood  still,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her  fore 
head.  "  Send  for  him,  and  leave  me  alone  till  he 
comes,  but  stay  when  he  is  here,"  she  added,  in  clear 
tones ;  and  still  not  looking  at  the  Lady  Anne,  she 
bent  her  head  and  went  out. 

The  tall,  old-fashioned  shield  stood  on  its  point, 


284  VIA  CRUCIS 

leaning1  against  the  table.  Eleanor  looked  at  it,  and 
her  features  were  moved,  now  that  she  was  alone, 
and  her  eyes  were  veiled.  She  lifted  it  in  both  her 
hands,  wondering  at  its  weight,  and  she  pushed  aside 
an  inner  curtain  and  set  the  shield  upon  an  altar  that 
was  there,  hidden  from  the  rest  of  the  tent  for 
a  little  oratory,  as  in  many  royal  chambers.  Then 
she  knelt  down  at  the  kneeling-stool  and  folded  her 
hands. 

She  was  not  ungenerous,  she  was  not  at  heart 
unjust;  she  deserved  some  gentleness  of  judgment, 
for  she  was  doing  her  best  to  fight  her  love,  for  her 
royal  honour's  sake  and  for  the  sick  girl  who  seemed 
so  poor  a  rival,  but  who  loved  Gilbert  Warde  as  well 
as  she  and  less  selfishly.  As  she  knelt  there,  she 
believed  that  she  was  in  the  great  struggle  of  her 
life,  and  that  at  once  and  forever  she  could  make 
the  sacrifice,  though  it  had  grown  to  be  a  great  one. 

She  meant  to  send  him  before  the  army,  and  the 
wager  for  his  death  was  as  a  hundred  to  one.  Let 
him  die  —  that  was  the  consecration  of  the  sacrifice. 
Dead  in  glory,  dead  for  Christ's  sake,  dead  in  the 
spotless  purity  of  his  young  knighthood,  she  could 
love  him  fearlessly  thereafter,  and  speak  very  gentle 
words  upon  his  grave.  It  was  not  cruel  to  send  him 
to  die  thus,  if  his  days  were  numbered,  and  he  him 
self  would  gratefully  thank  her  for  preferring  him 
before  others  to  lead  the  van  of  peril ;  for  the  way 
of  the  Cross  leads  heavenwards.  But  if  he  should 
come  alive  through  the  storm  of  swords,  he  must  win 
great  honour  for  all  his  life. 

Thereupon   she   prayed   for   him   alone,   and  she 


VIA  CRUCIS  285 

dedicated  his  great  shield  on  her  own  altar,  in  her  own 
words,  with  all  her  passionate  heart,  wherein  beat 
the  blood  of  her  grandsire,  dead  in  a  hermit's  cell 
after  much  love  and  war,  and  the  blood  of  the  son 
she  was  to  bear  long  after,  whom  men  were  to  call 
the  Lion- Hearted. 

And  she  prayed  thus,  with  a  pale  face  :  — 
"  Almighty  God,  most  just,  who  art  the  truth,  and 
who  orderest  good  against  evil,  with  pain,  that  men 
may  be  saved  by  overcoming,  help  me  to  give  up 
what  is  most  dear  in  my  life.  Hear  me,  O  God,  a 
sinful  woman,  and  have  mercy  upon  me  !  Hear  me, 

0  God,  and  though  I  perish,  let  this  man's  soul  be 
saved ! 

"  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  most  pitiful  and  kind,  to  Thee 

1  bring  my  sin,  and  I  steadfastly  purpose  to  be  faith 
ful,  and  to  renounce  and  abhor  my  evil  desires  and 
thoughts.      Hear   me,    O   Christ,  a   sinful  woman ! 
To  Thy  service   and  to  the  honour  of   Thy    most 
sacred  Cross,  I  dedicate  this  true  man.     Bless  Thou 
this  shield  of  his,  that  it  may  be  between  him  and 
his  enemies,  and  his  arms,  also,  that  he  may  go  before 
our  host,  and  save  many,  and  lead  us  to  Thy  holy 
place  in  Jerusalem  !     Endue  him  with  grace,  fill  him 
with  strength,  enlighten  his  heart.     Hear  me  and 
help  me,  O  Christ,  a  sinful,  loving  woman ! 

"  Holy  Spirit  of  God,  Most  High,  Creator,  Com 
forter,  let  Thy  pure  gifts  descend  upon  this  clean- 
hearted  man,  that  his  courage  fail  not  in  life,  nor 
in  the  hour  of  death.  Hear  me,  a  sinful  woman, 
Thou  who,  with  the  Father  and  the  Son,  livest  and 
reignest  in  glory  forever  !  " 


286  VIA  CRUCIS 

When  she  had  prayed,  she  knelt  a  little  while 
longer,  with  bowed  head  pressing  against  her 
clasped  hands  on  the  praying-stool  till  they  hurt 
her.  And  that  was  the  hardest,  for  it  had  been 
her  meaning  to  make  a  solemn  promise,  and  she 
saw  between  her  and  her  love  the  barrier  of  her 
faith  to  be  kept  to  God,  and  of  her  respect  of  her 
own  plighted  honour. 

Rising  at  last,  she  took  the  shield  again,  and 
kissed  it  once  between  the  arms  of  the  cross  ;  and 
her  lips  made  a  small  mark  on  the  fresh  gold- 
leaf. 

"  He  will  never  knew  what  it  is,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  looked  at  the  place,  "  but  I  think  that 
no  arrow  shall  strike  through  it  there,  nor  any 
lance." 

Suddenly  she  longed  to  kiss  the  shield  again,  and 
many  times,  to  thousands,  as  if  her  lips  could  give  it 
tenfold  virtue  to  defend.  But  she  thought  of  her 
prayer  and  would  not,  and  she  brought  the  shield 
back  into  the  tent,  out  of  the  oratory,  and  set  it 
upright  against  the  table. 

Then,  after  a  time,  Anne  of  Auch  lifted  the 
curtain  to  let  Gilbert  in,  standing  by  the  entrance 
when  he  had  passed  her. 

He  bent  his  head  courteously  but  not  humbly, 
and  then  stood  upright,  pale  from  what  he  had 
suffered,  his  eyes  fixed  as  if  he  were  making 
an  inward  effort.  The  Queen  spoke,  coldly  and 
clearly. 

"  Gilbert  Warde,  you  saved  my  life,  and  you  have 
sent  back  a  gift  from  me.  I  have  called  you  to 


VIA  CRUCIS  287 

give  you  two  things.  You  may  scorn  the  one,  but 
the  other  you  cannot  refuse." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  within  her  outward  cold 
ness  he  saw  something  he  had  never  seen  before 
—  something  divinely  womanly,  unguessed  in  his 
life,  which  touched  him  more  than  her  own  touch 
had  ever  done.  He  felt  that  she  drew  him  to  her, 
though  it  were  now  against  her  better  will.  There 
fore  he  was  afraid,  and  angry  with  himself.  , 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  fierce  coldness, 
"I  need  no  gifts  to  poison  your  good  thanks." 

"  Sir,"  answered  Eleanor,  "  there  is  no  venom  in 
the  honour  I  mean  for  you.  I  borrowed  your 
shield,  —  your  father's  honourable  shield,  —  and  I 
give  it  back  to  you  with  a  device  that  was  never 
shamed,  that  you  and  yours  may  bear  my  cross  of 
Aquitaine  in  memory  of  what  you  did." 

She  took  the  shield  and  held  it  out  to  him  with  a 
look  almost  stern,  and  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  it  they 
dwelt  on  the  spot  she  had  kissed.  Gilbert's  face 
changed,  for  he  was  moved.  He  knelt  on  one  knee 
to  receive  the  shield,  and  his  voice  shook. 

"  Madam,  I  will  bear  this  device  ever  for  your 
Grace's  sake  and  memory,  and  I  pray  that  I  may 
bear  it  honourably,  and  my  sons'  sons  after  me." 

Eleanor  waited  a  breathing-space  before  she  spoke 
again. 

"  You  may  not  bear  it  long,  sir,"  she  said,  and 
her  voice  was  less  hard  and  clear,  "  for  I  desire  of 
you  a  great  service,  which  is  also  an  honour  before 
other  men." 

"  What  I  may  do,  I  wiU  do." 


288  VIA  CRUCIS 

"  Take,  then,  at  your  choice  two  or  three  score 
lances,  gentlemen  and  men-at-arms  who  are  well 
mounted,  and  ride  ever  a  day's  march  before  the 
army,  spying  out  the  enemy  and  sending  messengers 
constantly  to  us,  as  we  shall  send  to  you;  for  I  trust 
not  the  Greek  guides  we  have.  So  you  shall  save  us 
all  from  the  destruction  that  overtook  the  German 
Emperor  in  the  mountains.  Will  you  do  this  ?  " 

Again  Gilbert's  face  lightened,  for  he  knew  the 
danger  and  the  honour. 

"I  will  do  it  faithfully,  so  help  me  God." 

Then  he  would  have  risen,  but  the  Queen  spoke 
again. 

"  Lady  Anne,"  she  said,  "  give  me  the  sword  of 
Aquitaine." 

Anne  of  Auch  brought  the  great  blade,  in  its 
velvet  scabbard,  with  its  cross-hilt  bound  with 
twisted  wire  of  gold  for  the  old  Duke's  grip.  The 
Queen  drew  it  slowly  and  gave  back  the  sheath. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  "  I  will  give  you  knighthood,  that 
you  may  have  authority  among  men." 

Gilbert  was  taken  unawares.  He  bowed  his  head 
in  silence,  and  knelt  upon  both  knees  instead  of  on 
one  only,  placing  his  open  hands  together.  The 
Queen  stood  with  her  left  hand  on  the  hilt  of  the 
great  sword,  and  she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
with  her  right.  Gilbert  also  crossed  himself,  and 
so  did  the  Lady  Anne,  and  she  knelt  at  the  Queen's 
left,  for  it  was  a  very  solemn  rite.  Then  Eleanor 
spoke. 

"  Gilbert  Warde,  inasmuch  as  you  are  about  to 
receive  the  holy  order  of  knighthood  at  my  hands 


VIA  CRUCIS  289 

without  preparation,  consider  first  whether  you  are 
in  any  mortal  sin,  lest  that  be  an  impediment." 

"  On  the  honour  of  my  word,  I  have  no  mortal  sin 
upon  my  soul,"  answered  Gilbert. 

"  Make,  then,  the  promises  of  knighthood.  Promise 
before  Almighty  God  that  you  will  lead  an  honest  and 
a  clean  life." 

"I  will  so  live,  God  helping  me." 

"  Promise  that  to  the  best  of  your  strength  you 
will  defend  the  Christian  faith  against  unbelievers, 
and  that  you  will  suffer  death,  and  a  cruel  death, 
but  not  deny  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

"  I  will  be  faithful  to  death,  so  God  help  me." 

"Promise  that  you  will  honour  women,  and  pro 
tect  them,  and  shield  the  weak,  and  at  all  times  be 
merciful  to  the  poor,  preferring  before  yourself  all 
those  who  are  in  trouble  and  need." 

"I  will,  by  God's  grace." 

"  Promise  that  you  will  be  true  and  allegiant  to 
your  liege  sovereign." 

"  I  promise  that  I  will  be  true  and  allegiant  to  my 
liege  Queen  and  Lady,  Maud  of  England,  and  to  her 
son  and  Prince,  Henry  Plantagenet,  and  thereof  your 
Grace  is  witness." 

"  And  between  my  hands,  as  your  liege  sovereign's 
proxy,  lay  your  hands." 

Gilbert  held  out  his  joined  hands  to  the  Queen, 
and  she  took  them  between  her  palms,  while  Anne 
of  Auch  held  the  great  sword,  still  kneeling. 

"  I  put  my  hands  between  the  hands  of  my  Lady, 
Queen  Maud  of  England,  and  I  am  her  man,"  said 
Gilbert  Warde. 


290  VIA   CRUCIS 

But  Eleanor's  touch  was  like  ice,  and  she  trembled 
a  little. 

Then  she  took  the  sword  of  Aquitaine  and  held  it 
up  in  her  right  hand,  though  it  was  heavy,  and  she 
spoke  holy  words. 

"  Gilbert  Warde,  be  a  true  knight  in  life  and 
death !  *  Whatsoever  things  are  true,  whatsoever 
things  are  honest,  whatsoever  things  are  just,  whatso 
ever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever  things  are  lovely, 
whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report;  if  there  be  any 
virtue,  and  if  there  be  any  praise,  think  on  these 
things'  —  and  do  them,  and  for  them  live  and  die." 

When  she  had  spoken,  she  laid  the  sword  flat  upon 
his  left  shoulder,  and  let  it  linger  a  moment,  and  then 
lifted  it  and  touched  him  twice  again,  and  sheathed 
the  long  blade. 

"Sir  Gilbert,  rise!" 

He  stood  before  her,  and  he  knew  what  remained 
to  be  done,  according  to  the  rite,  and  it  was  not  fire 
that  ran  through  him,  but  a  chill  of  fear.  The 
Queen's  face  was  marble  pale  and  as  beautiful  as 
death.  One  step  toward  him  she  made  with  out 
stretched  arms,  her  right  above  his  left,  her  left 
under  his  right  as  he  met  her.  Then  she  coldly 
kissed  the  man  she  loved  on  the  cheek,  once  only,  in 
the  royal  fashion,  and  he  kissed  her. 

She  drew  back,  and  their  eyes  met.  Remembering 
many  things,  he  thought  that  he  should  see  in  her 
face  the  evil  shadow  of  his  mother,  as  he  had  seen 
it  before  ;  but  he  saw  a  face  he  did  not  know,  for  it 
was  that  of  a  suffering  woman,  coldly  brave  to  the 
best  of  her  strength. 


VIA   CRUCIS  291 

"  Go,  Sir  Gilbert!  "  she  said.  "  Go  out  and  fight, 
and  die  if  need  be,  that  others  may  live  to  win 
battles  for  the  Cross  of  Christ." 

He  was  gone,  and  Anne  of  Auch  stood  beside  her. 

"  Lady  Anne,"  said  the  Queen,  "  I  thank  you.  I 
would  be  alone." 

She  turned  and  went  into  the  little  oratory,  and 
knelt  down  before  the  altar,  looking  at  the  place 
where  the  shield  had  stood. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

So  Gilbert  Warde  was  made  a  knight,  and  to  this 
day  the  Wards  bear  the  cross  flory  in  their  shield, 
which  was  given  to  their  forefathers  by  Eleanor  of 
Aquitaine  before  she  was  English  Queen.  And  so, 
also,  Sir  Gilbert  promised  to  ride  a  day's  march 
before  the  rest,  with  a  handful  of  men  whom  he 
chose  among  his  acquaintance ;  and  many  envied 
him  his  honour,  but  there  were  more  who  warmed 
themselves  by  the  camp-fire  at  night  most  comfortably, 
and  were  glad  that  they  had  not  been  chosen  to  live 
hardly,  half  starving  on  their  half -starved  horses,  with 
a  cloak  and  a  blanket  on  the  ground  for  a  bed,  watch 
ing  in  turns  by  night,  and  waking  each  morning  to 
wonder  whether  they  should  live  till  sunset. 

In  truth  there  was  less  of  danger  than  of  hard 
ship  at  first,  and  more  trouble  than  either ;  for 
though  Gilbert  was  sent  on  with  the  best  of  the 
Greek  guides  to  choose  the  way,  and  had  full  power 
of  life  and  death  over  them*  so  that  they  feared  him 
more  than  Satan  and  dared  not  hide  the  truth  from 
him,  yet  when  he  had  chosen  the  line  of  the  march 
and  had  sent  word  by  a  messenger  to  the  army,  the 
answer  often  came  back  that  the  King  and  the 
Emperor  were  of  another  mind,  because  they  had 
listened  to  some  lying  Greek  ;  and  since  the  Emperor 
and  the  King  and  Queen  had  agreed  that  any  one 

292 


VIA   CRTJCIS  293 

of  them  must  always  yield  to  the  opinion  of  the 
other  two,  Eleanor's  advice,  which  was  Gilbert's 
and  founded  on  real  knowledge,  was  often  over 
ridden  by  the  others,  and  she  was  forced  to  give 
way  or  make  an  open  breach.  Then  Gilbert  ground 
his  teeth  silently  and  did  the  best  he  could,  retrac 
ing  his  steps  over  many  miles,  exploring  a  new  road, 
and  choking  down  the  humiliation  bravely,  because 
he  had  given  his  word. 

But  little  by  little  that  humiliation  turned  to 
honour,  even  among  the  men  who  were  with  him ; 
for  most  of  them  were  taken  from  the  Queen's  army, 
and  besides,  they  saw  every  day  that  Gilbert  was 
right,  so  that  they  trusted  him  and  would  have 
followed  him  through  storm  and  fire.  Also  in  the 
Queen's  army  it  began  to  be  known,  and  it  spread 
to  the  other  French,  and  to  the  Germans,  and  to  the 
Poles  and  the  Bohemians,  that  when  the  troops  fol 
lowed  the  march  chosen  by  Gilbert,  all  went  well, 
and  they  found  water  and  forage  for  their  horses, 
and  food  and  a  good  camping-ground;  but  often, 
when  the  King  and  the  Emperor  had  their  way, 
there  was  hunger  and  cold  and  lack  of  water. 

The  men  began  to  say  to  each  other,  when  they 
knew,  "  This  is  Sir  Gilbert's  road,  and  to-day  is  a 
feast-day  ;  "  and  then,  "  This  is  the  King's  road,  and 
to-day  is  Friday."  And  on  Gilbert's  days  they  sang 
as  they  marched,  and  trudged  along  cheerfully,  and 
his  name  ran  like  a  sound  of  gladness  along  the 
endless  lines.  He  grew,  therefore,  to  be  beloved  by 
many  who  had  never  seen  him  in  the  great  host,  and 
at  last  even  by  the  most  of  the  soldiers. 


294  VIA  CRUCIS 

So  they  came  to  Ephesus  at  last,  very  weary,  and 
with  some  sick  persons  among  them.  Conrad  the 
Emperor  was  in  ill  case,  though  he  was  of  the 
strongest,  and  at  Ephesus  messengers  met  him  who 
had  come  by  sea  from  the  Emperor  of  the  Greeks, 
begging  that  he  and  all  his  men  would  sail  back  to 
Constantinople  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  winter 
there,  and  afterwards  go  by  sea  again  to  Syria. 
And  they  did  so,  for  the  brave  Germans  were  much 
broken  and  worn  because  of  their  marches  and 
defeats  before  they  had  gone  back  to  Nicsea,  and  the 
armies  of  the  King  and  Queen  went  on  without  them, 
to  a  great  meadow  by  the  Mseander,  where  they 
encamped  to  keep  the  Christmas  feast  with  great 
thanksgiving  for  their  preservation  thus  far. 

On  Christmas  eve  Gilbert  came  into  camp  with  his 
companions,  and  when  they  were  seen,  a  great  cry 
arose  throughout  the  army,  and  men  left  their  fires 
and  their  mending  of  arms  and  clothes,  and  ran  out 
to  meet  him,  a  gaunt  man  in  rusty  armour,  on  a  gaunt 
horse,  followed  by  others  in  no  better  plight.  His 
mantle  was  all  stained  with  rain  and  mud,  and  was 
rent  in  many  places,  and  his  mail  was  brown,  save 
where  it  had  been  chafed  bright  by  his  moving  ;  his 
great  Norman  horse  was  rough  with  his  winter  coat 
and  seemed  all  joints  and  bones,  and  Dunstan  and 
Alric  rode  in  rags  with  the  men-at-arms.  His  face 
was  haggard  with  weariness  and  lack  of  food,  but 
stern  and  high,  and  the  first  who  saw  him  ceased 
shouting  and  looked  up  at  him  with  awe;  but  then 
he  smiled  so  gently  and  kindly  that  the  cheer  broke 
out  again  and  rang  across  the  camp,  far  and  wide. 


VIA  CRUCIS  295 

Presently  those  who  cheered  began  to  follow  the 
little  train  of  horsemen,  first  by  twos  and  tens  and 
twenties,  till  thousands  were  drawn  into  the  stream 
and  pressed  round  him,  so  that  he  was  obliged 
to  move  slowly.  For  many  weeks  they  had  heard 
his  name,  knowing  that  it  meant  safety  for  them, 
and  wonderful  tales  had  been  told  over  the  camp- 
fires  of  his  endurance  and  courage.  So  his  coming 
back  was  his  first  triumph,  and  the  day  was  memo 
rable  in  his  life.  While  the  army  rested  there  was 
no  work  for  him,  and  he  had  returned  in  order 
to  rest  himself;  but  he  had  nothing  of  immediate 
importance  to  report  to  the  leaders,  and  he  bade 
his  men  find  out  his  baggage  among  the  heaps 
of  packs  that  had  been  unloaded  from  the  general 
train  of  mules,  and  to  pitch  his  tent  near  those  of 
his  old  comrades  on  the  march. 

While  Dunstan  and  Alric  were  obeying  his  orders, 
he  sat  on  his  saddle  on  the  ground,  with  his  weary 
horse  standing  beside  him,  his  nose  plunged  into  a 
canvas  bag  half  full  of  oats.  Gilbert  looked  on 
in  a  sort  of  mournfully  indifferent  silence.  Every 
thing  he  saw  was  familiar,  and  yet  it  all  seemed  very 
far  away  and  divided  from  him  by  weeks  of  danger 
and  hard  riding.  The  vast  crowd  that  had  followed 
him  had  begun  to  disperse  as  soon  as  it  was  known 
that  he  was  not  going  before  the  King,  and  only 
three  or  four  hundred  of  the  more  curious  stood  and 
moved  in  groups  around  the  open  space  where  the 
tent  was  being  pitched.  Many  of  his  acquaintance 
came  and  spoke  to  him,  and  he  rose  and  shook  their 
hands  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  each;  but  none  of 


296  VIA   CRUCI8 

the  greater  nobles  who  had  sought  him  out  after  he 
had  saved  the  Queen  took  any  pains  to  find  him 
now,  though  they  and  their  followers  owed  him 
much.  The  praise  of  the  multitude  and  their  ring 
ing  cheers  had  been  pleasant  enough  to  hear,  but  he 
had  expected  something  else,  and  a  cold  disappoint 
ment  took  possession  of  his  heart  as  he  sat  in  his 
tent  some  hours  later,  considering,  with  Duns  tan, 
the  miserable  condition  and  poor  appearance  of  his 
arms  and  the  impossibility  of  procuring  anything 
better.  He  was  as  lonely  and  unnoticed  as  if  he 
had  not  been  devoting  every  energy  he  possessed 
to  the  safe  guidance  of  a  great  army  during  the 
past  two  months. 

"There  is  nothing  to  complain  of,  sir,"  said 
Dunstan,  in  answer  to  a  disconsolate  ejaculation  of 
Gilbert's.  "  Your  body  is  whole,  you  have  received 
back  your  belongings  with  nothing  stolen,  which  is 
more  than  I  expected  of  the  Greek  muleteers,  you 
have  a  new  tunic  and  hose  to  wear,  and  bean  soup  for 
supper.  The  world  is  not  so  bad  as  it  looks." 

"On  the  other  hand/'  answered  Gilbert,  with  a 
sour  smile,  "my  bones  ache,  my  armour  is  rusty, 
and  my  purse  is  empty.  Make  what  good  cheer 
you  can  of  that." 

He  rose,  and  leaving  Dunstan  to  set  to  work 
upon  the  injured  coat  of  mail,  he  took  his  cap 
and  strolled  out  alone  to  breathe  the  afternoon  air. 
It  was  Christmas-time,  and  the  day  had  been 
bright  and  clear;  but  he  wore  no  mantle,  for  the 
overwhelmingly  good  reason  that  he  possessed  only 
one,  which  was  in  rags?  and,  indeed,  he  had  been 


VIA  CRUCIS  297 

so  much  exposed  to  bad  weather  of  late  that  he  was 
hardened  to  every  sort  of  discomfort  —  a  little  more 
or  less  was  not  worth  counting. 

Dunstan  was  quite  right  of  course,  and  Gilbert 
had  no  reasonable  cause  for  complaint.  The  Queen 
would  doubtless  send  for  him  on  the  morrow,  and 
had  he  chosen  to  present  himself  before  her  at  once 
he  would  have  been  received  with  honour.  But 
he  was  in  an  ill  humour  with  himself  and  the 
world,  and  being  still  very  young,  it  seemed  quite 
natural  to  yield  to  it  rather  than  to  reason  him 
self  into  a  better  temper.  He  got  out  of  the  camp 
as  soon  as  he  could,  and  walked  by  the  green 
banks  of  the  still  Maeander.  It  was  winter,  but 
the  grass  was  as  fresh  as  it  might  have  been  in 
spring,  and  a  salt  breeze  floated  up  from  the  not 
distant  sea.  He  knew  the  country,  for  he  himself 
had  chosen  the  spot  as  a  camping-place  for  the  army, 
and  had  advanced  still  farther  when  messengers  had 
brought  him  word  to  come  back.  To  northward 
rolled  away  the.  gentle  hills  beyond  Ephesus,  while 
to  the  south  and  east  the  mountains  of  the  Cadmus 
and  Taurus  rose  rugged  and  sharp  against  the  pale 
sky  —  the  range  through  which  the  army  must  next 
make  its  way  to  Attalia.  The  time  lacked  an  hour 
of  sunset,  and  the  clear  air  had  taken  the  first  tinge 
of  evening.  Here  and  there  in  the  plain  the  ever 
green  ilsx  trees  grew  in  little  clumps,  black  against 
the  sunlight,  but  dark  green,  with  glistening  points 
among  their  shadows,  where  the  afternoon  sun  struck 
full  upon  them. 

Gilbert  had  hoped  to  be  alone,  but  there  were 


298  VIA  CRUCIS 

parties  of  idlers  along  the  river-bank  as  far  as  he 
could  see,  and  among  them  were  many  who  bore 
evergreen  boughs  and  young  cypress  shoots  of 
three  and  four  years'  growth,  which  they  were  carry 
ing  back  to  the  camp  for  the  Christmas  festival.  For 
there  were  many  Normans  in  the  army,  and  Franks 
from  Lorraine,  and  Northern  men  from  Poland  and 
Bohemia,  and  all  the  men  of  the  North  would  have 
their  Yule  trees  before  their  tents,  as  their  heathen 
forefathers  had  done  before  them  in  the  days  of  the 
old  faith. 

There  were  ladies  of  Eleanor's  troop  also,  riding 
for  pleasure,  in  rich  gowns  and  flowing  mantles, 
and  knights  with  them,  all  unarmed  save  for  a 
sword  or  dagger;  and  there  were  many  dark-eyed 
Greeks,  too,  both  men  and  women,  who  had  come 
out  from  Ephesus  in  holiday  clothes  to  see  the 
great  camp.  It  was  all  calm,  and  bright,  and  good 
to  see,  but  out  of  harmony  with  Gilbert's  gloomy 
thoughts.  At  the  bend  of  the  stream  the  ground  rose 
a  little,  somewhat  away  from  the  bank,  and  the 
rocks  stuck  up  rough  and  jagged  out  of  the  green 
grass,  a  sort  of  little  wilderness  in  the  midst  of  the 
fertile  plain.  Almost  instinctively,  Gilbert  turned 
aside  and  climbed  in  and  out  among  the  stones  until 
he  reached  the  highest  ledge,  on  which  he  seated 
himself  in  profound  satisfaction  at  having  got 
away  from  his  fellow-creatures.  The  place  where 
he  had  perched  was  about  sixty  feet  above  the 
river-bank,  and  though  he  could  not  distinctly 
hear  the  conversation  of  the  passing  groups  he 
could  see  the  expression  of  every  face  clearly,  and 


VIA  CEUCIS  299 

he  found  himself  wondering  how  often  the  look 
of  each  matched  the  words  and  the  unspoken 
thoughts. 

The  sun  sank  lower,  and  he  had  no  idea  how  long 
he  had  sat  still,  when  he  became  conscious  that  he 
was  intently  watching  a  party  of  riders  who  were 
coming  toward  him.  They  were  stili  half  a  mile 
away,  but  he  saw  a  white  horse  in  the  front  rank, 
and  even  at  that  distance  something  in  the  easy 
pace  of  the  creature  made  him  feel  sure  that  it  was 
the  Queen's  Arab  mare.  They  came  on  at  a  canter, 
and  in  two  or  three  minutes  he  could  make  out  the 
figures  of  those  best  known  to  him  —  Eleanor  her 
self,  Anne  of  Auch,  Castignac,  and  the  other  two 
attendant  knights  who  were  always  in  the  Queen's 
train,  and  a  score  of  others  riding  behind  by  twos 
and  threes.  Gilbert  sat  motionless  and  watched 
them,  nor  did  it  occur  to  him  that  he  himself,  sit 
ting  on  the  highest  boulder  and  dressed  in  a  tunic 
of  dark  red,  was  a  striking  object  in  the  glow  of  the 
setting  sun.  But  before  she  was  near  enough  to 
recognize  him,  Eleanor  had  seen  him,  and  her  curi 
osity  was  roused;  a  few  minutes  more,  and  she  knew 
his  face.  Then  their  eyes  met. 

She  drew  rein  and  walked  her  horse,  still  looking 
up,  and  wondering  why  he  gazed  at  her  so  fixedly, 
without  so  much  as  lifting  his  cap  from  his  head; 
and  then,  to  her  infinite  surprise,  she  saw  him 
spring  to  his  feet  and  disappear  from  view  among 
the  rocks.  She  was  so  much  astonished  that  she 
stopped  her  horse  altogether  and  sat  several  seconds 
staring  at  the  ledge  on  which  he  had  sat,  while  all 


300  VIA  CRUCIS 

her  attendants  looked  in  the  same  direction,  expect 
ing  Gilbert  to  appear  again ;  for  several  of  them  had 
recognized  him,  and  supposed  that  he  would  hasten 
down  to  salute  the  Queen. 

But  when  he  did  not  come,  she  moved  on,  and 
though  her  face  did  not  change,  she  did  not  speak 
again  till  the  camp  was  reached,  nor  did  any  of  her 
party  dare  to  break  the  silence. 

Had  she  looked  back,  she  might  have  caught  sight 
of  Gilbert's  figure  walking  steadily  with  bent  head 
across  the  plain,  away  from  the  river  and  from  the 
camp,  out  to  the  broad  solitude  beyond.  He  had 
acted  under  an  impulse,  foolishly,  almost  uncon 
sciously,  being  guided  by  something  he  did  not 
attempt  to  understand. 

Two  months  had  passed,  and  more,  since  he  had 
seen  her,  and  in  his  life  of  excitement  and  anxiety 
her  face  had  disappeared  from  his  dreams.  While 
he  had  been  away  from  her,  she  had  not  existed  for 
him,  save  as  the  only  leader  of  the  three  to  whom 
he  looked  for  approbation  and  support;  the  woman 
had  been  lost  in  the  person  of  the  sovereign,  and 
had  ceased  to  torment  him  by  the  perpetual  opposi 
tion  of  that  which  all  men  coveted  to  that  which  he 
truly  loved.  But  now,  at  the  very  first  sight  of  her 
face,  it  seemed  as  if  the  Queen  were  gone  again, 
leaving  only  the  woman  to  his  sight,  and  at  the  in 
stant  in  which  he  realized  it  he  had  turned  and  fled, 
hardly  knowing  what  he  did. 

He  walked  steadily  on,  more  than  two  miles,  and 
all  at  once  he  cast  no  shadow,  for  the  sun  had  gone 
down,  and  the  pale  ea^t  before  him  turned  to  a  cool 


VIA   CRTJC1S  301 

purple  in  the  reflection.  The  air  was  very  chilly, 
for  the  night  wind  came  down  suddenly  from  the 
mountains  as  the  sea  breeze  died  away,  and  the  soli 
tary  man  felt  cold ;  for  he  had  no  cloak,  and  exposure 
and  fighting  had  used  his  blood,  while  within  him 
there  was  nothing  to  cheer  his  heart. 

It  had  seemed  to  him  for  two  years  that  he  was 
always  just  about  to  do  the  high  deed,  to  make  the 
great  decision  of  life,  to  find  out  his  destiny,  and  he 
had  done  bravely  and  well  all  that  he  had  found  in 
his  way.  The  chance  came,  he  seized  it,  he  did  his 
best,  and  the  cheers  of  the  soldiers  had  told  him 
a  few  hours  ago  that  he  was  no  longer  the  obscure 
English  wanderer  who  had  met  Geoffrey  Plantagenet 
on  the  road  to  Paris.  Thousands  repeated  his  name 
in  honour  and  looked  to  him  for  their  safety  on  the 
march,  cursing  those  who  led  them  astray  against  his 
warning.  In  his  place  on  that  day,  most  men  would 
have  gone  to  the  Queen,  expecting  a  great  reward, 
if  not  claiming  it  outright.  But  he  was  wandering 
alone  at  nightfall  in  the  great  plain,  discontented 
with  all  things,  and  most  of  all  with  himself. 
Everything  he  had  done  rose  up  against  him  and 
accused  him,  instead  of  praising  him  and  flattering 
his  vanity;  every  good  deed  had  a  base  motive  in 
his  eyes,  or  was  poisoned  by  the  thought  that  it  had 
not  been  done  for  itself,  but  for  an  uncertain  some 
thing  which  came  over  him  when  the  Queen  spoke 
to  him  or  touched  his  hand.  It  is  not  only  inactive 
men  who  grow  morbid  and  fault-finding  with  them 
selves;  for  the  wide  breach  between  the  ideal  good 
and  the  poor  accomplishment  holds  as  much  that 


302  VIA   CRUCIS 

can  disappoint  the  heart  as  the  mean  little  ditch 
between  thought  and  deed,  wherein  so  many  weak 
good  men  lie  stuck  in  the  mud  of  self-examination. 
He  who  stands  at  the  edge  of  the  limit,  with  a 
lifetime  of  good  struggles  behind  him,  may  be  as 
sad  and  hopeless  as  he  who  sits  down  and  weeps 
before  the  mountain  of  untried  beginnings.  The  joy 
of  the  earthly  future  is  for  the  very  great  and  the 
very  little.  For  as  charity  leads  mankind  by  faith 
to  the  hope  of  the  life  to  come,  so,  on  the  mind's 
side,  by  faith  in  its  own  strength,  the  work  of  genius 
in  the  past  is  its  own  surety  for  like  work  to 
come. 

Gilbert  Warde  was  not  of  that  great  mould,  but 
more  human  and  less  sure  of  himself;  and  suddenly, 
as  the  sun  went  down,  a  strong  desire  of  death  came 
upon  him,  and  he  wished  that  he  were  dead  and 
buried  under  the  grass  whereon  he  stood,  for  very 
discontent  with  himself.  It  would  be  so  simple, 
and  none  would  mourn  him  much,  except  his  men, 
perhaps,  and  they  would  part  his  few  possessions 
and  serve  another.  He  was  a  burden  to  the  earth, 
since  he  could  do  nothing  well;  he  was  a  coward, 
because  he  was  afraid  of  a  woman's  eyes  and  had 
fled  from  their  gaze  like  a  boy;  he  was  a  sinner 
deserving  eternal  fire  since  a  touch  of  a  fair  woman's 
hand  could  make  him  unfaithful  for  an  instant  to 
the  one  woman  he  loved  best.  He  had  meant 'to 
tread  the  way  of  the  Cross  in  true  faith,  with  un 
swerving  feet,  and  his  heart  was  the  toy  of  women ;  he 
had  sworn  the  promises  of  knighthood,  and  he  was 
already  breaking  them  in  his  thoughts ;  he  was  his 


VIA   CRUCIS  303 

evil  mother's  son,  and  he  had  not  the  strength  to  be 
unlike  her. 

It  was  folly  and  madness,  and  Castignac,  the 
Gascon  knight,  would  have  laughed  at  him,  or  else 
would  have  believed  that  he  was  demented.  But  to 
the  Englishman  it  was  real,  for  he  was  under  that 
strange  melancholy  which  only  Northmen  know,  and 
which  is  the  most  real  suffering  in  all  the  world. 
It  is  a  dim  sadness  that  gathers  like  a  cloud  about 
strong  men's  souls,  and  they  fear  it,  and  sometimes 
kill  themselves  to  escape  from  it  into  the  outer  dark 
ness  beyond;  but  sometimes  it  drives  them  to  bad 
deeds  and  the  shedding  of  innocent  blood,  and  now 
and  then  the  better  sort  of  buch  men  turn  from  the 
world  and  hide  themselves  in  the  abodes  of  sorrow 
and  pain  and  prayer.  The  signs  of  it  are  that  when 
it  has  no  cause  it  seizes  upon  trifles  to  make 
them  its  reasons,  and  more  often  it  torments  young 
men  than  the  old;  and  no  woman  nor  southern 
person  has  ever  known  it,  nor  can  even,  understand 
it.  But  it  follows  the  northern  blood  from  genera 
tion  to  generation,  like  retribution  for  an  evil  without 
a  name  done  long  ago  by  the  northern  race. 

It  was  dark  night  when  Gilbert  found  his  way 
back  to  his  tent,  more  by  the  instinct  of  one  used  to 
living  in  camps  among  soldiers  than  by  any  precise 
recollection  of  the  way,  and  he  sat  down  to  warm 
himself  before  the  brazier  of  red  coals  which  Alric 
shovelled  out  of  the  camp-fire  that  burned  outside. 
His  men  gave  him  a  pottage  of  beans,  with  bread 
and  wine,  as  it  was  Christmas  Eve  and  a  fast- 
day,  and  there  was  nothing  else,  for  all  the  fish 


304  VIA   CRUCIS 

brought  up  from  the  sea  had  been  bought  early  in 
the  day  for  the  great  nobles,  long  before  Gilbert 
had  come  into  the  lines.  But  he  neither  knew  nor 
cared,  and  he  ate  mechanically  what  they  gave  him, 
being  in  a  black  humour.  Then  he  sat  a  long  time 
by  the  light  of  the  earthenware  lamp  which  Dunstan 
occasionally  tended  with  an  iron  pin,  lest  the  char 
ring  wick  should  slip  into  the  half-melted  fat  and 
go  out  altogether.  When  he  was  not  watching  the 
wick,  the  man's  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  his 
master's  grave  face. 

"Sir,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  are  sad.  This  is  the 
Holy  Eve,  and  all  the  army  will  watch  till  midnight, 
when  the  first  masses  begin.  If  it  please  you,  let  us 
walk  through  the  camp  and  see  what  we  may.  The 
tents  of  the  great  lords  are  all  lighted  up  by  this 
time  and  the  soldiers  are  singing  the  Christmas 
hymns." 

Gilbert  shook  his  head  indifferently,  but  said 
nothing. 

"Sir,"  insisted  the  man,  "I  pray  you,  let  us  go, 
for  you  shall  be  cheered,  and  there  are  good  sights. 
Before  midnight  the  King  and  Queen  and  all  the 
court  go  in  procession  to  the  great  chapel  tent, 
and  it  is  meet  that  you  should  be  there  with 
them." 

Dunstan  brought  a  garment  and  gently  urged  him 
to  rise.  Gilbert  stood  up,  not  looking. 

"Why  should  I  go?"  he  asked.  "I  am  better 
alone,  for  I  am  in  a  sad  humour.  And,  besides,  it 
is  very  cold." 

"Your  cloak  shall  keep  you  warm,  sir." 


VIA  CRUCIS  305 

"I  cannot  walk  among  the  court  people  in  rags," 
answered  Gilbert;  "and  I  have  nothing  that  is  whole 
but  this  one  thin  tunic." 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  Dunstan  held  up  the  surcoat 
for  him  to  put  on  over  his  head,  the  skirts  caught 
up  in  his  hands,  which  also  held  the  collar  open. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  asked  Gilbert,  in  surprise. 

"It  is  a  knight's  surcoat,  sir,"  answered  the  man. 
"  It  is  of  very  good  stuff,  and  is  wadded  with  down. 
I  pray  you,  put  it  on." 

"This  is  a  gift,"  said  Gilbert,  suspiciously,  and 
drawing  back.  "  Who  sends  me  such  presents  ?  " 

"The  King  of  France,  sir." 

"You  mean  the  Queen."  He  frowned  and  would 
not  touch  the  coat. 

"The  things  were  brought  by  the  King's  men, 
and  one  of  the  King's  knights  came  also  with  them, 
and  delivered  a  very  courteous  message,  and  a  purse 
of  Greek  bezants,  very  heavy." 

Gilbert  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  in  hesitation. 
He  was  very  poor,  but  if  the  gifts  were  from  the 
Queen,  he  was  resolved  not  to  keep  them. 

"Sir,"  said  Dunstan,  "the  knight  said  most  ex 
pressly  that  the  King  sent  you  these  poor  presents 
as  a  token  that  he  desires  to  see  you  to-morrow  and 
to  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done.  I  thought  to 
please  you  by  bringing  them  out  suddenly." 

Then  Gilbert  smiled  kindly,  for  the  man  loved 
him,  and  he  put  his  head  and  arms  into  the  knightly 
garment  with  its  wide  sleeves,  and  Dunstan  laced  it 
up  the  back,  so  that  it  fitted  closely  to  the  body, 
while  the  skirt  hung  down  below  the  knees.  It 


306  VIA   CEUCIS 

was  of  a  rich  dark  silk,  woven  in  the  East,  and 
much  like  the  velvet  of  later  days.  Then  Dun- 
stan  girded  his  master  with  a  new  sword-belt  made 
of  heavy  silver  plates,  finely  chased  and  sewn  on 
leather,  and  he  thrust  the  great  old  sword  with  its 
sheath  through  the  flattened  ring  that  hung  to  the 
belt  by  short  silver  chains.  Lastly  he  put  upon 
Gilbert's  shoulders  a  mantle  of  very  dark  red  cloth, 
lined  with  fine  fur  and  clasped  at  the  neck  with 
silver ;  for  it  was  not  seemly  to  wear  a  surcoat  with 
out  a  cloak. 

"It  is  very  noble,"  said  Dunstan,  moving  back  a 
step  or  two  to  see  the  effect. 

Indeed,  the  young  English  knight  looked  well  in 
the  dress  of  his  station,  which  he  wore  for  the  first 
time ;  for  he  was  very  tall  and  broad  of  shoulder,  and 
a  lean  man,  well-bred;  his  face  was  clear  and  pale, 
and  his  fair  hair  fell  thick  and  long  behind  his  cap. 

"  But  you,  Dunstan,  you  cannot  be  seen  —  " 

Gilbert  stopped,  for  he  noticed  suddenly  that  both 
his  men  were  clad  in  new  clothes  of  good  cloth  and 
leather. 

"The  servants  are  honoured  with  their  lord,"  said 
Dunstan.  "The  King  sent  gifts  for  us,  too." 

"That  was  a  man's  thought,  not  a  woman's,"  said 
Gilbert,  almost  to  himself. 

He  went  out,  and  Dunstan  walked  by  his  left,  but 
half  a  step  behind  his  stride,  as  was  proper. 

The  camp  was  lit  up  with  fires  and  torches  as  far  as 
one  could  see,  and  all  men  were  out  of  doors,  either 
walking  up  and  down,  arm  in  arm,  or  sitting  before 
their  tents  on  folding-stools,  or  on  their  saddles, 


VIA   CRUCIS  307 

or  on  packs  of  baggage.  The  hundreds  and  thou 
sands  of  little  Christmas  trees,  stuck  into  the  earth 
amid  circles  of  torches  before  the  newly  whitened 
tents,  made  a  great  garden  of  boughs  and  evergreens, 
and  the  yellow  glare  shone  everywhere  through  lac 
ing  branches,  and  fell  on  rich  colours  and  gleaming 
arms,  well  polished  for  the  holiday,  and  lost  itself 
suddenly  in  the  cold  starlight  overhead.  The  air 
smelt  of  evergreen  and  the  aromatic  smoke  of  burn 
ing  resin. 

The  night  rang  with  song  also,  and  in  some  places 
as  many  as  a  hundred  had  -gathered  in  company  to 
sing  the  long  Christmas  hymns  they  had  learned  as 
little  children  far  away  at  home  —  endless  canticles 
with  endless  repetitions,  telling  the  story  of  the 
Christ-Child's  birth  at  Bethlehem,  of  the  adoration 
of  the  shepherds,  and  of  the  coming  of  the  Eastern 
kings. 

In  one  part  of  the  camp  the  rough  Burgundians 
were  drinking  the  strong  Asian  wine  in  deep 
draughts,  roaring  their  great  choruses  between,  with 
more  energy  than  unction.  But  for  the  most  part 
the  northern  men  were  sober  and  in  earnest,  praying 
as  they  sang  and  looking  upward  as  if  the  Star  of  the 
East  were  presently  to  shed  its  soft  light  in  the 
sky ;  and  they  tended  the  torches  and  lights  around 
the  trees  devoutly,  not  guessing  that  their  fathers 
had  done  the  same  long  ago,  in  bleak  Denmark  and 
snowy  Norway,  in  worship  of  Odin  and  in  honour  of 
Yggdrasil,  the  tree  of  life. 

The  Gascons  and  all  the  men  of  the  South,  on 
their  side,  had  made  little  altars  between  two  trees, 


308  VIA   CKUCIS 

decked  with  white  cloths  and  adorned  with  tinsel 
ornaments  and  little  crosses  and  small  carved  images 
carefully  brought,  like  household  gods,  from  the  far 
home,  and  treasured  only  next  to  their  arms.  The 
thin,  dark  faces  of  the  men  were  fervent  with 
southern  faith,  and  their  wild  black  eyes  were 
deep  and  still. 

There  were  also  Alsatians  and  Lorrainers  in  lines 
by  themselves,  quiet,  fair-haired  men.  They  had 
little  German  dolls  of  wood,  and  toys  brightly 
painted,  and  by  their  trees  they  set  out  the  scene 
of  Bethlehem,  with  the  manger  and  the  Christ- 
Child,  and  the  oxen  crouching  down,  and  the  Blessed 
Mary  and  Saint  Joseph,  and  also  the  shepherds  and 
the  wise  kings  ;  and  the  men  sat  down  before  these 
things  with  happy  faces  and  sang  their  songs.  So  it 
was  through  the  whole  camp,  the  soldiers  doing  every 
where  according  to  their  customs. 

As  for  the  nobles  and  knights,  Gilbert  saw  some 
of  them  walking  about  like  himself,  and  some  were 
sitting  before  their  tents.  Here  and  there,  as  he 
passed,  when  a  tent  was  open,  he  saw  knights 
kneeling  in  prayer,  and  could  hear  them  reciting  the 
litanies.  But  it  was  not  always  so,  for  some  were 
spending  the  night  in  feasting,  their  tents  being 
closed,  though  one  could  hear  plainly  the  revelry. 
There  was  more  than  one  great  tent  in  the  French 
lines,  of  which  the  curtain  was  raised  a  little,  and 
there  Gilbert  saw  men  and  women  drinking  together, 
under  bright  lights,  and  he  saw  that  the  women  were 
Greeks  and  that  their  cheeks  were  painted  and  their 
eyelids  blackened  ;  and  he  turned  away  from  the 


VIA  CHUCK  309 

sight,  in  disgust  that  such  things  should  be  done 
on  the  Holy  Eve  of  Christmas. 

Further  on,  some  very  poor  soldiers,  in  sheepskin 
doublets  and  leathern  hose,  were  kneeling  together 
before  a  sort  of  rough  screen,  on  which  were  hung 
images  painted  in  the  manner  of  Greek  eikons. 
These  men  had  long  and  silky  beards,  and  their 
smooth  brown  hair  hung  out  over  their  shoulders  in 
well-combed  waves,  and  some  of  them  had  beautiful 
faces.  One,  who  was  a  priest  of  their  own,  stood 
upright  and  recited  prayers  in  a  low  chant,  and  from 
time  to  time,  at  the  refrain,  the  soldiers  all  bowed 
themselves  till  their  foreheads  touched  the  ground. 

"The  Lord  Jesus  Christ  be  praised,"  sang  the 
priest. 

"To  all  ages.     Amen,"  responded  the  soldiers. 

Though  they  sang  in  the  Bohemian  language,  and 
Gilbert  could  not  understand,  he  saw  that  they 
believed  and  were  of  an  earnest  mind. 

So  he  walked  about  for  more  than  an  hour,  look 
ing  and  listening,  and  his  own  sad  humour  was 
lightened  a  little  as  he  forgot  to  think  of  himself 
only.  For  it  seemed  a  great  thing  to  have  been 
chosen  to  lead  so  many  through  a  wilderness  full 
of  danger,  and  to  know  that  more  than  a  hundred 
thousand  lives  had  been  in  his  keeping,  as  it  were, 
for  two  months,  and  were  to  be  in  his  hand  again, 
till  he  should  lead  them  safely  into  Syria,  or  perish 
himself  and  leave  his  task  to  another.  It  was 
a  task  worth  accomplishing  and  a  trust  worth  his 
life. 

Then,  at  midnight,  he  was  walking  in  a  great 


310  VIA  CKUCIS 

procession  after  the  King  and  Queen.  Modestly  he 
joined  the  ranks,  and  his  man  walked  beside  him 
carrying  a  torch,  so  that  the  light  fell  full  upon 
his  face.  Some  one  knew  him,  and  spoke  to  his 
neighbour. 

"That  is  Sir  Gilbert  Warde,  who  is  our  guide," 
he  said. 

In  an  instant  word  ran  along  the  line  that  he 
was  there ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  messenger  came 
breathless,  asking  for  him,  and  then  the  herald  of 
France,  Montjoye  Saint  Denis,  came  after,  bidding 
him  to  a  foremost  place,  in  the  name  of  the  King  and 
Queen.  So  he  followed  the  herald,  whose  runner 
walked  before  him,  as  had  been  bidden  by  Eleanor 
herself. 

"  Make  way  for  the  Guide  of  Aquitaine ! "  cried 
the  squire,  in  a  loud  voice. 

Knights  and  men-at-arms  stood  aside  to  let  him 
pass,  and  the  tall  Englishman  went  between  them, 
courteously  bending  his  head  to  thank  those  who 
moved  out  of  his  way,  and  deprecating  the  high 
honour  that  was  done  him.  He  heard  his  name 
repeated,  both  by  men  whose  faces  he  could  see  in 
the  light  around  him,  when  the  torches  blazed  and 
flamed,  and  also  from  the  darkness  beyond. 

"Well  done,  Sir  Gilbert!"  cried  some.  "God 
bless  the  Guide  of  Aquitaine!"  cried  many  others. 
And  all  the  voices  praised  him,  so  that  his  heart 
warmed. 

Following  the  herald,  he  came  to  his  place  in  the 
procession,  in  the  front  rank  of  the  great  vassals  of 
the  two  kingdoms,  and  just  after  the  sovereign  lords ; 


VIA   CRUCIS  311 

> 

and  as  lie  was  somewhat  taller  than  other  men,  he 
could  look  over  their  heads,  and  he  saw  the  King  and 
Queen  in  their  furs,  walking  together,  and  before 
them  the  bishops  and  priests.  At  the  stir  made  by 
his  coming  Eleanor  turned  and  looked  back,  and  her 
eyes  met  Gilbert's  through  the  smoky  glare,  gazing 
at  him  sadly,  as  if  she  would  have  made  him  under 
stand  something  she  could  not  say. 

But  he  would  not  have  spoken  if  he  could,  for 
his  thoughts  were  on  other  things.  The  procession 
went  on  toward  the  royal  altar,  set  up  under  an  open 
tent  in  a  wide  space,  so  that  the  multitude  could 
kneel  on  the  grass  and  both  see  and  hear  the  cele 
bration.  So  they  all  knelt  down,  the  great  barons 
and  chief  vassals  having  small  hassocks  for  their 
knees,  while  the  King  and  Queen  and  the  sovereign 
lords  of  Savoy  and  Alsatia  and  Lorraine,  and  of 
Bohemia  and  of  Poland,  had  rich  praying-stools  set 
out  for  them  in  a  row,  next  to  the  King  and  Queen. 

The  torches  were  stuck  into  the  ground  to  burn 
down  as  they  might,  and  the  great  wax  candles  shone 
quietly  on  the  white  altar,  for  the  night  was  now  very 
still  and  clear.  There  all  the  great  nobles  and  many 
thousands  of  other  men  heard  the  Christmas  mass, 
just  after  midnight,  knowing  that  many  of  them 
should  never  hear  it  again  on  earth.  There  they 
all  sang  together,  in  a  mighty  melody  of  older  times, 
the  'Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,'  which  was  first 
sung  on  the  Holy  Eve ;  and  there,  when  the  Bishop 
of  Metz  was  about  to  lift  up  the  consecrated  bread, 
the  royal  trumpets  rang  out  a  great  call  to  the  mul 
titude,  so  that  all  men  might  bow  themselves  to- 


312  VIA  CRTJCIS 

gether.  Then  the  silence  was  very  deep,  while  the 
Lord  passed  by;  nor  ever  again  in  his  life  did  Sir 
Gilbert  Warde  know  such  a  stillness  as  that  was, 
save  once,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  the  Way 
of  the  Cross  he  had  reached  a  place  of  refreshment 
and  rest. 


CHAPTER  XX 

GILBEK,'!  rose  from  his  knees  with  the  rest,  and  then 
he  saw  that  the  King  and  Queen  placed  themselves 
side  by  side  and  standing,  and  the  nobles  began  to 
go  up  to  them  according  to  their  rank,  to  kiss  their 
hands.  As  Gilbert  stood  still,  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  he  watched  the  procession  of  the  barons  from 
a  distance.  Suddenly  he  felt  that  his  eyes  were  wide 
open,  and  that  he  was  gazing  at  a  face  which  he 
knew,  hardly  believing  that  he  saw  it  in  the  flesh; 
and  his  back  stiffened,  and  his  teeth  ground  on  one 
another. 

Ten  paces  from  him,  waiting  and  looking  on,  like 
himself,  stood  a  graceful  man  of  middle  height,  of 
a  clear  olive  complexion,  with  a  well-clipped  beard 
of  somewhat  pointed  cut,  grey  at  the  sides,  as  was 
also  the  smooth,  dark  hair.  Years  had  passed,  and 
the  last  time  he  had  seen  that  face  had  been  in  the 
changing  light  of  the  greenwood,  where  the  sunshine 
played  among  the  leaves ;  and  as  he  had  seen  it 
last,  he  had  felt  steel  in  his  side  and  had  fallen 
asleep,  and  after  that  his  life  had  changed.  For 
Arnold  de  Curboil  was  before  him,  looking  at  him, 
but  not  recognizing  him.  Still  Gilbert  stood  rooted 
to  the  spot,  trying  not  to  believe  his  senses,  for 
he  could  not  understand  how  his  stepfather  could 
suddenly  be  among  the  Crusaders  ;  but  the  divine 

313 


314  VIA   CRUCIS 

peace  that  had  descended  upon  him  that  night  was 
shivered  as  a  mirror  by  a  stone,  and  his  heart  grew 
cold  and  hard. 

The  man  also  was  changed  since  Gilbert  had  seen 
him.  The  face  was  handsome  still,  but  it  was  thin 
and  sharp,  and  the  eyes  were  haggard  and  weary, 
as  if  they  had  seen  a  great  evil  long  and  had 
sickened  of  it  at  last,  and  were  haunted  by  it.  Gil 
bert  looked  at  him  who  had  murdered  his  father 
and  had  brought  shame  to  his  mother,  and  who  had 
robbed  him  of  his  fair  birthright,  and  he  saw  that 
something  of  the  score  had  been  paid.  Gradually, 
too,  as  Sir  Arnold  gazed,  a  look  of  something  like 
despair  settled  in  his  face,  a  sort  of  horror  that  was 
not  fear,  —  for  he  was  no  coward,  —  but  was  rather 
a  dread  of  himself.  He  made  a  step  forward,  and 
Gilbert  waited,  and  heard  how  Dunstan,  who  stood 
behind  him,  loosened  his  dagger  in  its  brass  sheath. 

At  that  moment  came  the  King's  herald  again  as 
before,  bidding  him  go  up  to  the  presence  of  the 
King  and  Queen. 

"  Room  for  the  Guide  of  Aquitaine  !  " 

The  cry  rang  loud  and  clear,  and  Gilbert  saw  Sir 
Arnold  start  in  surprise  at  the  high-sounding  title. 
Then  he  followed  the  herald ;  but  in  his  heart 
there  was  already  a  triumph  that  the  man  who  had 
left  him  for  dead  in  the  English  woods  should  find 
him  again  thus  preferred  before  other  men. 

The  Queen's  face  grew  paler  as  he  came  toward 
her  and  knelt  down  on  one  knee,  and  through  her 
embroidered  glove  of  state  his  own  hand,  that  was 
cold,  felt  that  hers  was  colder.  But  it  did  not 


VIA  CRUCIS  315 

tremble,  and  her  voice  was  steady  and  clear,  so  that 
all  could  hear  it. 

"  Sir  Gilbert  Warde,"  she  said,  "  you  have  done 
well.  Guienne  thanks  you,  and  France  also — " 
She  paused  and  looked  toward  the  King,  who  was' 
watching  her  closely. 

Louis  bent  his  great  pale  face  solemnly  toward 
the  Englishman* 

"  We  thank  you,  Sir  Gilbert,"  he  said,  with  cold 
condescension. 

"A  hundred  thousand  men  thank  you,"  added 
Eleanor,  in  a  ringing  voice  that  was  to  make  up 
for  her  husband's  ungrateful  indifference. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  the  voice 
of  Gaston  de  Castignac,  high  and  full,  sent  up  a 
cheer  that  was  heard  far  out  in  the  clear  night. 

"  God  bless  the  Guide  of  Aquitaine  !  " 

The  cheer  was  taken  up  in  the  deep  shout  of 
strong  men  in  earnest ;  for  it  was  known  how  Gilbert 
cared  not  for  himself,  nor  for  rewards,  but  only  for 
honour ;  and  the  thirty  men  who  had  been  with  him 
had  told  far  and  wide  how  often  he  had  watched 
that  they  might  sleep,  and  how  he  would  always  give 
the  best  to  others,  and  how  gently  and  courteously 
he  treated  those  he  commanded. 

But  in  the  loud  cheering,  Eleanor  took  his  hand 
in  both  hers  and  bent  down  to  speak  to  him,  unheard 
by  the  rest ;  and  her  voice  was  low  and  trembled 
a  little. 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  she  said  fervently.  "  God 
bless  you  and  keep  you,  for  as  I  am  a  living  woman, 
you  are  dearer  to  me  than  the  whole  world." 


316  VIA  CRUCIS 

Gilbert  understood  how  she  loved  him,  as  he  had 
not  understood  before.  And  yet  her  touch  had  no 
evil  power  to  move  him  now,  and  the  shadow  of  his 
mother  no  longer  haunted  him  in  her  eyes  as  he 
looked  up.  There,  beside  the  Christmas  altar,  in  the 
Holy  Night,  she  was  trying  to  complete  the  sacrifice 
of  herself  and  her  love.  Gilbert  answered  her 
earnestly. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  try  to  do  your  will 
with  all  my  heart,  even  to  death." 

Thereafter  he  kept  his  word.  But  now  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  after  bending  his  knee  again,  he  looked 
into  the  Queen's  sad  eyes,  and  passed  on  to  make 
way  for  the  others,  while  the  cheers  that  were  for 
him  still  rang  in  the  air. 

Then  he  began  to  walk  to  his  tent.  Dunstan  had 
lighted  a  fresh  torch  and  was  waiting  for  him.  But 
the  great  barons,  who  had  gone  up  to  the  King  and 
Queen  before  him,  pressed  round  him  and  shook  his 
hand,  one  after  another,  and  bade  him  to  their  feast 
ing  on  the  morrow  ;  nor  was  there  jealousy  of  him, 
as  there  had  been  when  he  had  saved  the  Queen's 
life  at  Nicsea,  for  now  that  they  saw  him  they  felt 
that  he  was  no  courtier,  and  desired  only  the  safety 
of  the  army,  with  his  own  honour. 

As  they  thronged  about  him,  there  came  Sir  Arnold 
de  Curboil,  pressing  his  way  among  them,  and  when 
he  was  before  Gilbert  he  also  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Gilbert  Warde,"  he  asked, "  do  you  not  know  me  ?  " 

"  I  know  you,  sir,"  answered  the  young  knight,  in 
a  clear  voice  that  all  could  hear,  "  but  I  will  not  taka 
your  hand." 


VIA   CRTTCIS  317 

There  was  silence,  and  the  great  nobles  looked  on, 
not  understanding,  ..while  Dunstan  held  his  torch 
so  that  the  light  fell  full  upon  Sir  Arnold's  pale 
features. 

"  Then  take  my  glove  !  " 

He  plucked  off  his  loose  leathern  gauntlet  and 
tossed  it  lightly  at  Gilbert's  face.  But  Dunstan's 
quick  left  hand  caught  it  in  the  air,  while  the  torch 
scarcely  wavered  in  his  right. 

Gilbert  was  paler  than  his  enemy,  but  he  would 
not  let  his  hand  go  to  his  sword,  and  he  folded  his 
arms  under  his  mantle,  lest  they  should  move  against 
his  will. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  will  not  fight  you  again  at  this 
time,  though  you  killed  my  father  treacherously. 
Though  you  have  stolen  my  birthright,  I  will  not 
fight  you  now,  for  I  have  taken  the  Cross,  and  I  will 
keep  the  vow  of  the  Cross,  come  what  may." 

"  Coward  !  "  cried  Sir  Arnold,  contemptuously,  and 
he  would  have  turned  on  his  heel. 

But  Gilbert  stepped  forward  and  caught  him  by 
his  arms  and  held  him  quietly,  without  hurting  him, 
but  so  that  he  could  not  easily  move  and  must  hear. 

"You  have  called  me  a  coward,  Sir  Arnold  de 
Curboil.  How  should  I  fear  you,  since  I  can  wring 
you  to  death  in  my  hands  if  I  will?  But  I  will  let 
you  go,  and  these  good  lords  here  shall  judge 
whether  I  am  a  coward  or  not  because  I  will  not 
fight  you  until  I  have  fulfilled  my  vows." 

"  Well  said,"  cried  the  old  Count  of  Bourbon. 

"  Well  said,  well  done,"  cried  many  others. 

Moreover,   the   Count   of   Savoy,  of    whose   race 


318  VIA  CRUCIS 

none  was  ever  born  that  knew  fear,  even  to  this 
day,  spoke  to  his  younger  brother  of  Montferrat. 

"  I  have  not  seen  a  braver  man  than  this  English 
knight,  nor  a  better  man  of  his  hands,  nor  one  more 
gentle,  and  he  has  the  face  of  a  leader." 

Then  Gilbert  loosed  his  hold  and  Sir  Arnold 
looked  angrily  to  the  right  and  left,  and  passed  out 
of  the  crowd,  all  men  making  way  for  him  as  if  they 
would  not  touch  him.  Some  of  them  turned  to 
Gilbert  again,  and  asked  him  questions  about  the 
strange  knight. 

"My  lords,"  he  answered,  "he  is  Sir  Arnold  de 
Curboil,  my  stepfather;  for  when  he  had  killed  my 
father,  he  married  my  mother  and  stole  my  lands. 
I  fought  him  when  I  was  but  a  boy,  and  he  left  me 
for  dead  in  the  forest ;  and  now  I  think  that  he  is 
come  from  England  to  seek  occasion  against  me;  but 
if  I  live  I  shall  get  back  my  inheritance.  And  now, 
if  I  seem  to  you  to  have  dealt  justly  by  him,  I  crave 
my  leave  of  you,  and  thank  your  lordships  for  your 
good  will  and  courtesy." 

So  they  bade  him  good-night,  and  he  went  away, 
leaving  many  who  felt  that  he  had  done  well,  but 
that,  in  his  place,  they  could  not  have  done  as  much. 
They  did  not  know  how  dear  it  cost  him,  but  dimly 
they  guessed  that  he  was  braver  than  they,  though 
they  were  of  the  bravest. 

He  was  very  tired,  and  had  not  slept  in  a  good  bed 
under  his  own  tent  for  two  months ;  yet  he  was  sleep 
less,  and  awoke  after  two  hours,  and  could  not  sleep 
again  till  within  an  hour  of  the  winter  dawn ;  for  he 
feared  some  evil  for  Beatrix  if  her  father  should  claim 


VIA   CRUCIS  319 

her  of  the  Queen  and  take  her  back  from  Ephesus 
by  sea,  as  he  must  have  come. 

At  daylight,  warming  themselves  at  a  fire,  Dun- 
stan  told  Alric  all  that  happened  in  the  night.  The 
Saxon's  stolid  face  did  not  change,  but  he  was 
thoughtful  and  silent  for  some  time,  remembering 
how  the  Lady  Goda  had  once  had  him  beaten,  long 
ago,  because  he  had  not  held  Sir  Arnold's  horse  in 
the  right  way  when  the  knight  was  mounting. 

Presently  Beatrix's  Norman  tirewoman  came  to 
the  two  men,  wrapped  in  a  brown  cloak  with  a  hood 
that  covered  half  her  face.  She  told  them  that  her 
lady  knew  of  Sir  Arnold's  coming,  and  begged  of  Sir 
Gilbert  that  for  her  sake  he  would  walk  by  the  river 
at  noon,  when  every  one  would  be  at  dinner  in  the 
camp,  and  she  would  try  and  meet  him  there. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

GILBERT  waited  long,  for  he  went  down  early  to  the 
river,  and  he  sat  on  a  big  stone  sunning  himself,  for 
the  air  was  keen,  and  there  was  a  north  wind.  At 
last  he  saw  two  veiled  women  coming  along  the  bank. 
The  shorter  one  was  a  little  lame  and  leaned  upon 
the  other's  arm,  and  the  wind  blew  their  cloaks  be 
fore  them  as  they  came.  When  he  saw  that  Beatrix 
limped,  knowing  that  she  had  not  quite  recovered 
irom  her  fall,  and  remembering  that  she  might 
have  been  killed,  his  heart  sank  with  a  sickening 
faintness. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  very  gently,  for  she  looked 
so  slight  and  ill  that  he  almost  feared  to  touch  her, 
and  yet  he  did  not  wish  to  let  her  fingers  go,  nor  she 
to  take  them  away.  The  tirewoman  went  down  to 
the  river-bank,  at  some  distance,  and  they  sat  upon 
the  big  stone,  hand  in  hand  like  two  children,  and 
looked  at  each  other.  Suddenly  the  girl's  face 
lightened,  as  if  she  had  just  found  out  that  she 
was  glad;  her  eyes  laughed,  and  her  voice  was  as 
happy  as  a  bird's  at  sunrise. 

Gilbert  had  not  seen  her  for  a  long  time.  To  such 
a  man,  all  women,  and  even  one  chosen  woman,  might 
easily  become  an  ideal,  too  far  from  the  material  to 
have  a  real  hold  upon  his  manhood,  and  so  high  above 
earth  as  to  have  no  spiritual  realization.  Even  in  that 

320 


VIA   CRUCIS  321 

age  many  a  knight  made  a  divinity  of  his  lady  and 
a  religion  of  his  devotion  to  her,  so  that  the  very 
meaning  of  love  was  forgotten  in  the  ascetic  impulse 
to  seek  the  soul's  salvation  in  all  things,  even  in  the 
contempt  of  all  earthly  longings ;  and  those  men  de 
manded  as  much  in  return,  expecting  it  even  after 
their  own  death.  There  were  also  women,  like  Anne 
of  Auch,  who  gave  such  devotion  freely.  Neverthe 
less,  it  was  not  altogether  in  this  way  between  Beatrix 
and  Gilbert,  and  if  it  might  have  been,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  she  would  not  have  had  it  so,  and  her 
words  proved  it. 

"  I  am  so  proud  of  you !  "  she  cried.  "  And  I  am 
so  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Proud  of  me  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling  sadly.  "  I  am 
not  proud  of  myself.  For  all  I  have  done,  you  might 
be  dead  at  Nicsea." 

"  But  I  am  alive,"  she  answered  happily,  "  and  by 
your  doing,  though  I  cannot  yet  walk  quite  well." 

"  I  ought  to  have  let  the  Queen  pass  on.  I  ought 
to  have  thought  only  of  you." 

He  found  a  satisfaction  in  saying  aloud  at  last 
what  had  been  so  long  in  his  heart  against  him 
self,  and  in  saying'  it  to  Beatrix  herself.  But  she 
would  not  hear  it. 

"  That  would  have  been  very  unknightly  and  dis 
loyal,"  she  said.  "I  would  not  have  had  you  do  it, 
for  you  would  have  been  blamed  by  men.  And 
then  I  should  never  have  heard  what  I  heard  yester 
day  and  last  night,  the  very  best  words  I  ever 
heard  in  all  my  life  —  the  cry  of  a  great  army 
blessing  one  man  for  a  good  work  well  done." 


322  VIA  CRUCIS 

"  I  have  done  nothing,"  answered  Gilbert,  stolidiy 
determined  to  depreciate  himself  in  her  eyes. 

But  she  smiled  and  laid  her  gloved  hand  quickly 
upon  his  lips. 

"I  would  not  have  another  laugh  at  you,  as  I 
do  !  "  she  cried. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  the  mask  of  grave  melan 
choly  which  was  fast  becoming  his  natural  expression 
began  to  soften,  as  if  it  could  not  last  forever. 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  you  and  wondered 
whether  you  would  think  well  of  my  deeds,"  he  said. 

"  You  see  !  "  she  laughed.  "  And  now  because 
I  am  proud  of  you,  you  pretend  that  you  have  done 
nothing  !  That  is  poor  praise  of  my  good  sight  and 
judgment." 

He  laughed,  too.  Since  the  dawn  of  time,  women 
have  retorted  thus  upon  brave  men  too  modest  of  their 
doings  ;  and  since  the  first  woman  found  the  trick, 
it  has  never  failed  to  please  man.  But  love  needs 
not  novelty,  for  he  himself  is  always  young  ;  the 
stars  of  night  are  not  less  fair  in  our  eyes  because 
men  knew  the  'sweet  influence  of  the  Pleiades'  in 
Job's  day,  nor  is  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  less 
delicate  because  all  men  love  it.  The  old  is  the 
best,  even  in  love,  which  is  young. 

"  Say  what  you  will,"  answered  Gilbert,  presently, 
"  we  are  together  to-day." 

"  And  nothing  else  matters,"  said  Beatrix.  "  Not 
even  that  it  is  two  months  since  I  have  seen  you, 
and  that  I  have  been  ill,  or,  at  least,  half  crippled, 
by  that  fall.  It  is  all  forgotten." 

He  looked  at  her,  not  quite  understanding,  for  as 


VIA  CEUCIS  323 

she  spoke  her  eyebrows  were  raised  a  little,  with  her 
own  expression,  half  sad,  half  laughing  at  herself. 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  you  more  often,"  answered 
Gilbert, 

Her  little  birdlike  laugh  disconcerted  him. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  in  earnest,"  he  said. 

"  And  yet  when  you  are  in  earnest,  you  do  much 
harder  things,"  answered  Beatrix,  and  at  once  the 
sadness  had  the  better  of  the  laughter  in  her  face. 
"  Oh,  Gilbert,  I  wish  we  were  back  in  England  in 
the  old  days." 

«  So  do  I !  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  You  do  not.  You  say  so  to  please  me, 
but  you  cannot  make  it  sound  true.  You  are  a 
great  man  now.  You  are  Sir  Gilbert  Warde,  the 
Guide  of  Aquitaine.  It  is  you,  and  you  only,  who  are 
leading  the  army,  and  you  will  have  all  the  honour  of 
it.  Would  you  go  back  to  the  old  times  when  we 
were  boy  and  girl  ?  Would  you,  if  you  could  ?  " 

"I  would  if  I  could." 

He  spoke  so  gravely  that  she  understood  where 
his  thoughts  were,  and  that  they  were  not  all  for 
her.  For  a  few  moments  she  looked  down  in  silence, 
pulling  at  the  fingers  of  her  glove,  and  once  she 
sighed  j  then,  without  looking  up,  she  spoke,  in  her 
sweet,  low  voice. 

"  Gilbert,  what  are  we  to  each  other  ?  Brother 
and  sister  ?  " 

He  started,  again  not  understanding,  and  fancying 
that  she  was  setting  up  the  Church's  canon  between 
them,  which  he  now  knew  to  be  no  unremovable 
impediment. 


324  VIA  CRUCIS 

"  You  are  no  more  my  sister  than  your  tire 
woman  there  can  be,"  he  answered,  more  warmly 
than  he  had  spoken  yet. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  said  sadly. 

"I  do  not  understand,  then." 

"  If  you  do  not,  how  can  I  tell  you  what  I  mean  ?  " 
She  glanced  at  him  and  then  looked  away  quickly, 
for  she  was  blushing,  and  was  ashamed  of  her 
boldness. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  love  you  as  I  might  a 
sister  ?  "  asked  Gilbert,  with  the  -grave  tactlessness 
of  a  thoroughly  honest  man. 

The  blush  deepened  in  her  cheek,  and  she  nodded 
slowly,  still  looking  away. 

"  Beatrix  !  " 

"  Well  ?  "     She  would  not  turn  to  him. 

"  What  have  I  done  that  you  should  say  such  a 
thing  ?  " 

"  That  is  it  !  "  she  answered  regretfully.  "  You 
have  done  great  things,  but  they  were  not  for  me." 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  how  I  have  thought  of  you 
day  after  day,  hoping  that  you  might  think  well  of 
my  deeds  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  you  might  have  done  one  thing  more. 
That  would  have  made  all  the  difference." 

"  What  ?  "  He  bent  anxiously  towards  her  for  the 
answer. 

"You  might  have  tried  to  see  me." 

"  But  I  was  never  in  the  camp.  I  was  always  a 
day's  march  in  the  lead  of  the  army." 

"But  not  always  fighting.  There  were  days,  or 
nights,  when  you  could  have  ridden  back.  I  would 


VIA  CRUCIS  325 

have  met  you  anywhere  —  I  would  have  ridden  hours 
to  see  you.  But  you  never  tried.  And  at  last  it  is 
I  who  send  for  you  and  beg  you  to  come  and  talk 
with  me  here.  And  you  do  not  even  seem  glad  to 
be  with  me." 

"  I  did  not  think  that  I  had  a  right  to  leave  my 
post  and  come  back,  even  for  you." 

"  You  could  not  have  helped  it  — if  you  had  cared." 
She  spoke  very  low. 

Gilbert  looked  at  her  long,  and  the  lines  deepened 
in  his  face,  for  he  was  hurt. 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that  I  do  not  love  you  ?  " 
he  asked,  but  his  voice  was  cold  because  he  tried  to 
control  it,  and  succeeded  too  well. 

"You  have  never  told  me  so,"  Beatrix  answered. 
"  You  have  done  little  to  make  me  think  so,  since  we 
were  children  together.  You  have  never  tried  to  see 
me  when  it  would  have  cost  you  anything.  You  are 
not  glad  to  see  me  now." 

Her  voice  could  be  cold,  too  ;  but  there  was  a 
tremor  in  some  of  the  syllables.  He  was  utterly  sur 
prised  and  taken  unawares,  and  he  slowly  repeated 
the  substance  of  what  she  said. 

"  I  never  told  you  so  ?  Never  made  you  think  so? 
Oh,  Beatrix  !  " 

He  remembered  the  sleepless  nights  he  had  passed, 
accusing  himself  of  letting  even  one  thought  of  the 
Queen  come  between  him  and  the  girl  who  was  de 
nying  his  love  —  the  restless,  melancholy  hours  of 
self-accusation,  the  cruel  self -torment  —  how  could 
she  know? 

She  was  in  earnest,  now,  though  she  had  begun 


326  VIA  CRUCIS 

half  playfully;  for  if  the  man's  heart  had  not  changed, 
he  had  gone  away  from  her  in  his  active  life,  and  in 
the  habit  of  hiding  all  real  feeling  which  conies  from 
living  long  alone  or  with  strangers.  It  was  true  that 
outwardly  he  had  hardly  seemed  glad  to  see  her,  and 
all  the  ring  of  happiness  had  died  away  out  of  her 
voice  before  they  had  exchanged  many  words.  He 
felt  her  mood,  and  it  grew  clear  to  him  that  he  had 
made  some  great  mistake  which  it  would  be  very  hard 
to  set  right.  And  she  was  thinking  how  boldly  she 
had  striven  with  the  Queen  for  his  love,  and  that  now 
it  seemed  to  be  no  love  at  all. 

But  he,  whose  impulse  was  ever  to  act  when  there 
was  danger,  however  much  he  might  weary  his  soul 
with  inward  examination  at  other  times,  grew  desper 
ate,  and  gave  up  thinking  of  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 
What  he  loved  was  slipping  from  him,  and  though 
he  loved  it  in  his  own  way,  it  was  indeed  all  he  loved, 
and  he  would  not  let  it  go. 

Thoughtless  at  last,  and  sudden,  he  took  her  into 
his  arms,  and  his  face  was  close  to  hers,  and  his  eyes 
were  in  hers,  and  their  lips  breathed  the  same  breath. 
She  was  not  frightened,  but  her  lids  drooped,  and  she 
turned  quite  white.  Then  he  kissed  her,  not  once, 
but  many  times,  and  as  if  he  would  never  let  her  go, 
on  her  pale  mouth,  on  her  dark  eyelids,  on  her  wav 
ing  hair. 

"  If  I  kill  you,  you  shall  know  that  I  love  you," 
he  said,  and  he  kissed  her  again,  so  that  it  hurt  her, 
but  it  was  good  to  be  hurt. 

After  that  she  lay  in  his  arms,  very  still,  and  she 
looked  up  slowly,  and  their  eyes  met;  and  it  was  as  if 


VIA   CRUCIS  327 

the  veil  had  fallen  from  between  them.  When  he 
kissed  her  again,  his  kisses  were  gentle  and  altogether 
tender. 

"I  had  almost  lost  you,"  he  said,  breathing  the 
words  to  her  ear. 

The  Norman  tirewoman  sat  motionless  by  the 
river's  edge,  waiting  till  she  should  be  called.  After 
a  time  they  began  to  talk  again,  and  their  voices 
were  in  tune,  like  their  hearts.  Then  Gilbert  spoke 
of  what  had  happened  in  the  night,  but  Beatrix 
already  knew  that  her  father  had  come. 

"  He  has  come  to  take  me  away,"  she  said,  "  and 
we  have  talked  together.  Gilbert  —  a  dreadful  thing 
has  happened;  did  he  tell  you?" 

"  He  told  me  nothing  —  excepting  that  I  was  a 
coward  I  "  He  laughed  scornfully. 

"  I  think  he  is  half  mad  with  sorrow."  She  paused 
and  laid  her  hand  on  Gilbert's.  "  His  wife  is  dead,  — 
your  mother  is  dead,  —  with  the  child  she  bore  him." 

Gilbert's  eyes  alone  changed,  but  under  her  palm 
Beatrix  felt  the  sinews  of  his  hand  leap  and  the  veins 
swell. 

"Tell  me  quickly,"  he  said. 

"  She  was  burned,"  continued  Beatrix,  in  a  tone  of 
awe.  "  She  made  my  father  grind  his  people  till  they 
turned,  and  she  made  him  hang  the  leader  who  spoke 
for  them.  Then  all  the  yeomen  and  the  bondmen 
rose,  and  they  burned  the  castle,  and  your  mother 
died  with  the  child.  But  my  father  escaped  alive. 
Now  I  am  again  his  only  child,  and  he  wants  me 
again." 

Gilbert's  head  fell  forward,  as  if  he  had  received  a 


328  VIA  CBUCIS 

blow,  .but  he  said  nothing  for  a  time,  for  he  saw  his 
mother's  face  ;  and  he  saw  her  not  as  when  they  had 
parted,  but  as  he  remembered  her  before  that,  when 
he  had  loved  her  above  all  things,  not  knowing  what 
she  was.  In  spite  of  all  that  had  gone  between,  she 
came  back  to  him  as  she  had  been,  and  the  pain  and  the 
pity  were  real  and  great.  But  then  he  felt  Beatrix's 
hand  pressing  his  in  sympathy,  and  it  brought  him 
again  to  the  evil  truth.  He  raised  his  head. 

"She  is  better  dead,"  he  said  bitterly.  "Let  us 
not  speak  of  her  any  more.  She  was  my  mother." 

He  stared  long  at  the  river,  and  the  sadness  of  his 
homeless  and  lonely  state  in  the  world  began  to  come 
upon  him,  as  it  came  often.  Then  a  soft  voice  broke 
the  spell,  and  the  words  answered  his  thoughts. 

"  We  are  not  alone,  you  and  I,"  it  said,  and  the 
two  small  hands  crept  up  shyly  and  clasped  his  neck, 
and  the  loving,  pathetic  face  looked  up  to  his.  "  Do 
not  let  him  take  me  away  !  "  she  begged. 

His  hand  pressed  her  head  to  his  breast,  and  once 
more  he  kissed  her  hair. 

"  He  shall  not  take  you,"  he  said.  "  No  one  shall 
take  you  from  me;  no  one  shall  come  between  you 
and  me." 

Beatrix's  eyes  seemed  to  drink  out  of  his  the  mean 
ing  of  the  words  he  spoke. 

"Promise  me  that,"  she  said,  knowing  that  he 
would  promise  her  the  world. 

"  I  promise  it  with  all  my  heart." 

"On  your  knightly  faith?"  She  smiled  as  she 
insisted. 

"  On  my  honour  and  faith." 


VIA  CRUCIS  329 

"  And  on  the  faith  of  love,  too  ? "  She  almost 
laughed,  out  of  sheer  happiness. 

"  On  the  very  truth  of  true  love,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  I  am  quite  safe,"  she  said,  and  she  hid  her 
face  against  his  surcoat.  "  I  am  glad  I  came  to  you,  I 
am  glad  that  I  was  so  bold  as  to  send  for  you  this  day, 
for  it  is  the  best  day  of  my  whole  life.  And,  Gilbert, 
you  will  not  wait  till  I  send  for  you  another  time  ? 
You  will  try  and  see  me  —  of  your  own  accord?  " 

She  was  altogether  in  anxiety  again,  and  there  was 
a  look  of  fear  and  sadness  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  will  try  —  indeed  I  will,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"  Whenever  you  do,  you  shall  succeed,"  she 
answered,  nestling  to  him.  "  I  wish  I  might  shut 
my  eyes  and  rest  here  —  now  that  I  know." 

"  Rest,  sweet,  rest !  " 

A  moment,  and  then,  from  far  away,  a  clarion  call 
rang  on  the  still  air.  With  the  instinct  of  the  soldier, 
Gilbert  started,  and  listened,  holding  his  breath,  but 
still  pressing  the  girl  close  to  him. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  half  frightened. 

It  came  again,  joyous  and  clear. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  Christmas 
banquet,  and  perhaps  the  King  drinks  the  Queen's 
health  —  and  she  his." 

"  And  perhaps,  though  no  one  knows  it,  she  — " 
But  Beatrix  stopped  and  laughed.  "  I  will  not  say 
it!  Why  should  I  care?" 

She  was  thinking  that  if  the  Queen  drank  a  health 
it  might  be  meant,  in  her  heart,  for  the  Guide  of 
Aquitaine,  and  she  nestled  closer  to  him  in  the 
sunshine. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  WEEK  the  army  stayed  in  camp  by  the  pleasant 
waters  of  the  Mseander,  and  daily  at  noon  Gilbert  and 
Beatrix  met  at  the  same  place.  She  told  him  that 
she  had  not  seen  her  father  again,  and  believed  that 
he  had  left  the  camp.  The  Queen  knew  that  the 
lovers  met,  bat  she  would  not  hinder  them,  though 
it  was  cruel  pain  to  think  of  their  happiness.  Many 
have  spoken  and  written  evil  things  of  Eleanor,  for 
she  was  a  haughty  woman  and  overbearing,  and  she 
feared  neither  God  nor  man,  nor  Satan  either ;  but 
she  had  a  strong  and  generous  heart,  and,  having 
promised,  she  kept  her  word  as  well  as  she  could. 
She  would  not  send  for  Gilbert,  nor  see  him  alone, 
lest  she  should  fail  of  resolution  when  her  eyes 
looked  on  him  too  closely.  Beatrix  knew  this  and 
took  heart,  and  the  veil  of  estrangement  was  lifted 
between  her  and  Gilbert. 

On  the  last  day  but  one  of  the  year  he  went  be 
fore  the  King,  who  bade  him  mount  again  with  his 
men  and  ride  before  the  army  through  the  passes  of 
the  Cadmus  towards  Attalia,  seeking  out  the  safest 
way  and  giving  timely  warning  of  the  enemy.  Also, 
because  it  was  known  that  the  danger  must  be 
greater  now  than  before,  the  King  gave  him  leave  to 
choose  knights  and  men-at-arms  to  the  number  of  a 
hundred,  to  be  under  him,  and  made  him  rich  presents 
of  fine  armour,  and  caused  his  shield  to  be  painted 

330 


VIA   CRUCIS  331 

afresh  by  a  skilled  Greek.  While  he  talked  with  Gil 
bert  he  watched  the  Queen,  who  sat  apart  somewhat 
pale,  reading  in  a  Book  of  Hours,  for  he  was  suspicious 
of  her;  but  she  never  looked  at  the  Englishman  until 
he  was  taking  his  leave.  Then  she  beckoned  him  to 
her,  before  he  went  out,  and  gave  him  her  ungloved 
hand,  which  he  kissed,  and  she  looked  into  his  face  a 
moment,  very  sadly,  not  knowing  whether  she  should 
see  him  again.  So  he  went  out,  to  bid  Beatrix  farewell. 

She  met  him  at  the  accustomed  place  by  the  river, 
and  for  a  while  they  were  together;  but  they  could 
not  talk  much,  being  both  very  sad.  She  took  a 
golden  ring  from  her  hand,  and  would  have  put  it 
upon  his  finger,  but  it  was  too  small. 

"  I  had  hoped  that  you  could  wear  it,"  she  said, 
disappointed,  "for  it  was  my  mother's." 

Gilbert  took  it  in  his  hand.  It  was  of  very  pure 
gold  and  thin,  so  he  cut  it  open  with  the  point  of 
his  dagger  and  bent  it  back  and  clasped  it  round 
his  fourth  finger,  tightly. 

"  It  is  our  troth,"  he  said. 

It  was  hard  to  let  him  go,  for  she  also  knew  the 
peril,  as  the  Queen  knew  it. 

"  I  shall  pray  for  you,"  she  said,  clinging  to  him. 
"God  is  good  —  you  may  come  back  to  me." 

They  sat  a  long  time  together,  saying  nothing. 
When  it  was  time  for  him  to  lead  his  men  out,  as  he 
judged  by  the  sun,  he  kissed  her,  lifting  her  up  to 
him. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said. 

"  Not  yet !  "  she  pleaded,  between  his  kisses.  "  Oh, 
Gilbert,  not  so  very  soon  1  " 


332  VIA  CRUCIS 

But  she  knew  that  he  must  go,  and  he  set  hei 
gently  upon  her  feet,  for  it  was  the  last  moment. 
When  he  was  gone,  she  sat  down  upon  the  stone, 
and  the  Norman  woman  came  and  put  one  arm 
round  her,  holding  her,  for  she  seemed  fainting. 
Still  her  eyes  followed  him  as  he  strode  along  the 
river,  till  he  reached  the  turning.  There  he  stopped 
and  looked  back,  and  kissed  the  ring  she  had  given 
him,  and  waved  his  hand  to  her;  and  she  pressed 
both  her  hands  to  her  lips  and  threw  them  out  to 
him,  as  if  she  would  have  thrown  him  her  heart  and 
her  soul  with  it. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  sky  turned  black  before 
her  eyes  and  time  stood  still,  and  she  knew  what 
death  meant.  But  she  did  not  faint,  and  she  had 
no  tears.  Only,  when  she  went  back  after  some 
time,  she  walked  unsteadily  and  her  woman  helped 
her. 

So  Gilbert  rode  out  to  seek  the  way,  taking  well- 
mounted  messengers  with  him  as  before,  and  on  the 
first  day  of  the  New  Year  the  whole  army  began  the 
march  again,  crossing  the  river  the  first  time  at  a 
ford.  The  Queen  would  perforce  be  in  the  van, 
with  her  ladies,  so  that  the  speed  of  their  riding 
became  the  speed  of  the  whole  army,  whereby  the 
whole  host  was  kept  together.  The  first  messenger 
who  came  back  told  that  Sir  Gilbert  had  reached 
the  hills,  and  led  the  Queen  by  the  way  he  had  fol 
lowed,  saying  that  so  far  he  had  met  no  enemies. 
But  on  the  morrow,  as  they  drew  near  to  the  moun 
tains  and  rode  up  the  rising  ground,  they  saw  afar 
off  a  man  standing  by  one  who  lay  stark  on  the 


VIA   CEITCIS  33U 

ground,  and  driving  off  a  vulture  and  a  score  of 
ravens  with  a  long  staff.  The  Queen's  heart  stood 
still  when  she  saw  this  sight,  and  she  spurred  her 
Arab  mare  forward  before  all  the  army  till  she 
stopped  beside  the  dead  body  and  saw  that  the  face 
was  not  Gilbert's.  The  squire  who  was  guarding 
the  dead  told  her  how,  very  early  in  the  morning, 
some  fifty  Seljuk  horsemen  had  come  down  from  the 
hills  and  had  shot  arrows  at  Gilbert  and  his  men 
from  a  distance,  wheeling  quickly  and  galloping  away 
out  of  sight  before  the  Christians  could  mount ;  and 
this  one  knight  had  been  killed,  and  his  squire  had 
stayed  by  him  till  the  army  should  come  up,  while 
the  rest  rode  on,  and  took  both  the  horses  with  them 
in  case  they  should  lose  any  of  their  own. 

There  they  buried  the  body  deep,  when  the 
Queen's  chaplain  had  blessed  it,  and  they  marched 
on  till  noon,  and  encamped.  From  that  time  the 
Queen  made  her  ladies  ride  in  the  centre  of  the 
great  host,  protected  on  all  sides  ;  but  she  herself, 
with  the  Lady  Anne  of  Auch,  still  kept  the  van,  for 
in  this  way  she  was  nearer  to  Gilbert.  She  also 
sent  out  parties  of  scouts  to  the  right  and  left,  to 
give  warning  of  the  Seljuks  ;  and  the  King  guarded 
the  rear,  where  there  was  also  great  danger. 

Meanwhile  Gilbert  went  farther  up  into  the  moun 
tains,  searching  out  the  best  way  to  the  pass,  distrust 
ing  the  Greek  guides,  who  nevertheless  feared  him 
and  told  him  the  truth,  though  it  was  the  secret  wish 
of  the  Greek  Emperor  that  the  army  should  all  be 
destroyed,  because  he  desired  no  increase  of  the 
western  power  in  Asia.  But  Gilbert  told  the  guides 


334  VIA  CRUCIS 

severally  and  all  together  that  he  would  cut  off  the 
head  of  the  first  one  who  should  even  seem  to  be 
false  ;  and  he  kept  them  under  his  own  eye,  and  his 
long  sword  was  always  loose  in  the  sheath. 

He  went  very  cautiously  now,  setting  sentinels 
at  night  and  sleeping  little  himself,  so  that  he  might 
often  go  alone  from  post  to  post  and  see  that  all  was 
well.  But  the  Seljuks  never  came  in  the  darkness, 
for  as  yet  there  were  not  many  of  them,  and  they 
trusted  to  their  bows  by  day,  when  they  could  see  ; 
but  they  feared  to  come  to  close  quarters  with  the 
picked  swordsmen  of  the  French  army.  Since  they 
had  first  shown  themselves,  the  Christians  all  rode 
fully  armed  in  mail  and  hood,  knights  and  men-at- 
arms  and  young  squires  alike,  with  the  half-dozen 
pack-horses  and  a  few  spare  mounts  in  the  midst ; 
and  good  mail  was  proof  against  arrows,  but  Gilbert 
wished  that  he  had  brought  fifty  archers  with  him, 
such  marksmen  as  little  Alric,  his  groom. 

There  was  some  fighting  every  day,  when  he  was 
able  to  overtake  the  swift  Seljuks  in  some  narrow 
place.  They  fled  when  they  could,  but  when  they 
were  brought  to  bay  they  turned  savagely  and 
fought  like  panthers,  yelling  their  war-cry  :  "  Hurr  ! 
Hurr  !  "  which  in  the  Tartar  tongue  signifies  :  "  Kill ! 
Kill  !  " 

But  more  often  the  Christians  killed  them,  being 
stronger  men  and  better  armed,  and  Gilbert  was  ever 
the  first  to  strike  ;  and  one  day,  as  the  fiercest  of  a 
band  of  Seljuks  rode  at  him,  whirling  a  crooked 
sword  and  shouting  the  cry,  Gilbert  cut  off  his  arm 
at  one  stroke  and  it  fell  to  the  ground  with  the  fist 


VIA  CRUCIS  335 

still  grasping  the  scimitar ;  whereat  Gilbert  laughed 
fiercely  and  mocked  the  unbeliever's  cry. 

"  Hurrah  !     Hurrah  !  "  he  shouted,  as  he  rode  on. 

Then  his  followers  took  the  cry  from  him,  jeering 
at  their  enemies,  and  on  that  morning  they  let  not 
one  escape,  but  slew  them  all,  saving  one  man  only,  and 
took  the  horses  that  were  alive.  But  from  that  time, 
the  Christians  began  to  cry,  "  Hurrah !  "  And  when 
men  shout  to-day,  "  Hurrah  for  the  king,"  they  know 
not  that  they  are  crying,  "Kill  for  the  king." 

But  Gilbert  saw  that  the  place  where  this  hap 
pened  was  a  very  dangerous  one,  though  the  entrance 
to  it  was  broad  and  pleasant,  through  a  high  valley 
where  there  were  certain  huts  in  which  shepherds 
dwelt,  and  grass  and  water.  Therefore  he  turned 
back  quickly  when  the  killing  was  over,  and  he  took 
the  chief  of  the  guides  by  the  throat,  holding  his  head 
down  upon  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  and  bade  him 
show  a  better  way  if  he  would  keep  his  head  on  his 
shoulders. 

"  My  lord,  there  is  no  other  way,"  cried  the  man, 
fright-struck. 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Gilbert,  drawing  his  red 
sword  again.  "  If  there  is  no  other  way,  I  shall  not 
need  you  any  more,  my  man." 

When  the  fellow  heard  the  sheath  sucking  the 
wet  steel,  he  screamed  for  terror,  crying  out  that 
there  was  another  way.  So  they  rode  back  to  the 
entrance  of  the  valley,  and  the  man  began  to  lead 
them  up  a  steep  track  among  trees ;  and  above  the 
trees  they  came  to  a  desolate,  stony  ridge  ;  but  still 
they  could  ride,  though  it  was  a  very  toilsome  way. 


336  VIA   CRUCIS 

When  they  had  reached  the  top,  after  three  hours, 
Gilbert  saw  that  he  was  at  the  true  pass,  broad  and 
straight,  opening  down  to  grassy  slopes  beyond,  be 
tween  crags  that  would  not  give  a  foothold  to  a  goat. 
He  rode  on  a  little  way  farther,  and  there  was  a  very 
steep  path,  turning  back,  round  the  highest  peak,  and 
presently  he  looked  down  into  a  small,  high  valley, 
below  which  the  narrow  way  led  down  to  the  pleasant 
place  through  which  he  had  first  ridden,  and  he  saw 
that  a  great  army  could  easily  be  destroyed  there  by 
a  small  one  lying  in  ambush.  He  could  see  quite 
plainly  the  dead  Seljuks  lying  as  they  had  fallen,  and 
from  far  and  near  the  great  vultures  and  the  kites 
were  sailing  down  from  the  crags,  while  the  ravens 
and  crows  that  followed  his  killing  day  by  day  were 
flying,  and  settling,  and  hopping  along  the  ground, 
and  flying  again  to  the  places  of  death. 

He  rode  back  to  his  men,  driving  the  guide  before 
him  ;  and  the  man  feared  for  his  life  continually,  and 
reeled  in  the  saddle  as  if  he  were  drunk.  But  Gil 
bert  knew  that  a  man  well  frightened  was  a  man 
gained  for  what  he  wanted,  so  when  he  had  threat 
ened  to  cut  off  his  hands  and  put  out  his  eyes  and 
leave  him  to  die  among  the  rocks  if  he  tried  to  mis 
guide  the  army  again,  he  let  him  live.  Then  he 
sent  ten  men  back  to  lead  the  host  on  the  following 
day,  and  he  remained  in  the  pass  to  keep  it  until  the 
vanguard  should  be  in  sight.  He  bade  his  messengers 
tell  the  King  that  for  his  life  he  must  not  go  into  the 
broad  valley,  though  it  looked  so  fair  and  open. 

Now  the  Seljuks  whom  he  had  met  were  all  dead 
but  one  young  man;  but  there  were  many  of  them, 


VIA  CEUCIS  337 

some  five  thousand,  encamped  in  a  great  hiding-place 
surrounded  by  rocks,  on  the  other  side  of  the  pass. 
And  the  one  who  had  escaped  went  to  them,  and 
told  them  what  had  happened,  and  that  the  whole 
French  army  would  surely  come  up  that  way  en  the 
next  day  or  the  day  after  that.  Therefore  the  Seljuks 
mounted,  and  came  and  lay  in  ambush,  and  two  hun 
dred  of  them  rode  down  into  the  valley  and  hid 
themselves  among  the  trees  where  the  steep  way 
began  which  was  the  right  way.  For  they  knew 
the  mountains,  and  feared  lest  at  the  last  moment  the 
White  Fiend,  as  they  called  Gilbert,  might  find  out 
his  mistake  and  choose  that  path  to  the  pass,  and 
save  all ;  whereas  on  the  steep  ridge,  under  cover  of 
trees,  two  hundred  chosen  bowmen,  each  with  a  great 
sheaf  of  arrows,  might  turn  back  a  host.  So  the 
night  passed,  and  Gilbert  was  undisturbed;  but  great 
evil  was  prepared  for  the  army,  though  his  messen 
gers  reached  the  camp  and  repeated  his  words  to  the 
King  before  nightfall. 

It  lacked  two  hours  of  noon  when  Sir  Gaston  de 
Castignac  and  a  dozen  other  knights,  and  Gilbert's 
ten  men,  turned  the  spur  of  the  mountain  where  the 
broad  green  valley  opened,  having  on  their  right  the 
wooded  ridge  where  the  two  hundred  Seljuks  were 
hidden.  A  moment  later  the  Queen  herself  came  up, 
with  Anne  of  Auch  and  a  hundred  knights,  and  she 
supposed  that  they  should  have  ridden  through  the 
valley  ;  but  Castignac  stopped  her  and  told  her  what 
the  men  said,  and  that  they  must  all  begin  the  ascent 
from  that  point.  The  valley  was  inviting,  with  its 
pleasant  water  and  its  broad  meadow,  and  some  of  the 


338  VIA  CRUCIS 

knights  murmured ;  but  when  Eleanor  heard  that 
Gilbert  had  chosen  the  steeper  way,  she  had  no  doubt, 
and  bade  them  all  be  silent ;  yet  as  there  was  much 
space  on  the  grass,  and  as  the  men  said  that  the  ascent 
was  long,  it  seemed  better  to  halt  awhile  before 
beginning  to  climb.  Meanwhile  the  whole  van  of 
the  army  came  up,  many  thousands  of  men-at-arms 
and  knights,  and  footmen,  and  after  them  the  gorgeous 
train  of  ladies,  careless  and  gay,  feeling  themselves 
safe  among  so  many  armed  men,  and  desiring  a  sight 
of  the  enemy  rather  than  fearing  it.  There  was 
little  order  in  the  march,  and  hitherto  there  had  been 
little  danger  ;  for  the  Seljuks  meant  to  destroy  them 
in  the  mountains,  and  would  never  have  tried  battle 
in  the  open  with  such  a  great  host. 

Still  the  troop  came  on,  filling  the  valley  from  side 
to  side,  and  pressing  up  by  sheer  numbers  toward 
the  pass ;  and  the  King  came  at  last,  and  with  him 
certain  Greek  guides  to  whom  he  listened,  and  who 
began  to  make  a  great  outcry,  saying  that  Sir  Gil 
bert  was  a  madman  and  that  no  horses  could  climb 
the  ridge.  Thereat  Gilbert's  men  swore  that  they 
had  climbed  it  on  the  preceding  day,  and  that  even 
a  woman  could  ride  up  it.  And  one  of  the  Greeks 
began  to  laugh  at  them,  saying  that  they  lied ;  so  Sir 
Gaston  de  Castignac  smote  him  on  the  mouth  with 
his  mailed  hand,  breaking  all  his  teeth,  and  there  was 
a  turmoil,  and  the  people  began  to  take  opposite  sides, 
for  many  of  the  King's  men  had  come  up,  and  he 
himself  was  for  the  easy  way  up  the  valley. 

Then  Eleanor  was  very  angry,  and  she  mounted 
again,  calling  Gilbert's  men  to  her  side,  and  her  own 


VIA  CRUCIS  339 

knights  who  rode  in  the  van ,  and  she  told  the  King 
to  his  lace  that  the  Guide  of  Aquitaine  had  ever  led 
them  safely,  but  that  whenever  the  army  had  fol 
lowed  the  King's  guides,  evil  had  befallen.  But  the 
King  would  not  be  browbeaten  before  the  great 
lords  and  barons,  and  he  swore  a  great  oath  that  he 
would  go  by  the  valley,  come  what  might.  There 
upon  Eleanor  turned  her  back  on  him,  wheeling  her 
horse  short  round ;  and  she  bade  her  knights  ride  up 
the  hill  to  the  trees  with  her,  and  gave  orders  that  her 
army  should  follow  her,  and  leave  the  King  to  take  his 
men  by  any  way  he  chose.  On  this  the  confusion 
became  greater  than  ever,  for  in  the  host  there  were 
thousands  of  men,  half  pilgrims,  half  soldiers,  who 
had  come  of  their  own  accord,  as  free  men,  bound 
neither  to  the  King  nor  the  Queen  ;  there  were  also  the 
Poles  and  Bohemians,  who  were  independent.  All 
these  began  to  discuss  and  quarrel  among  themselves. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen  and  Anne  of  Auch  rode 
slowly  up  the  hill,  straight  toward  the  trees,  with 
Castignac  and  Gilbert's  men  before  them,  and  the 
knights  of  Guienne  following  closely  after  ;  but  none 
of  them  expected  evil,  for  the  place  looked  peaceful 
in  the  high  sunshine.  Eleanor  and  the  Lady  Anne 
rode  fearlessly  in  their  skirts  and  mantles,  but  the 
men  were  fully  armed  in  their  mail  and  steel  caps. 

The  foremost  were  half  a  dozen  spears'  lengths 
from  the  brushwood  when  the  sharp  twang  of  a  bow 
string  broke  the  stillness,  and  an  arrow  that  was 
meant  for  the  Queen's  face  flew  just  between  her 
and  the  Lady  Anne.  The  fair  woman  flushed  sud 
denly  at  the  danger  ;  on  the  dark  one's  forehead  a 


340  VTA  CRUCIS 

vein  stood  out,  straight  from  the  parting  of  the  hair, 
downward  between  the  eyes.  The  men  spurred 
their  horses  instantly,  and  dashed  into  the  wood 
before  the  Queen  could  stop  them,  Castignac  -  first 
by  a  length,  with  his  sword  out.  The  flight  of 
arrows  that  followed  the  first  shot  struck  horses  and 
men  together,  and  three  or  four  horses  went  down 
with  their  riders;  but  the  mail  was  proof,  and  the 
men  were  on  their  feet  in  an  instant  and  running 
among  the  trees,  whence  came  the  sound  of  great 
blows,  and  the  sharp  twanging  of  many  bowstrings, 
and  the  yell  of  the  Seljuks.  Now  and  again  an 
arrow  flew  from  among  the  trees  at  random,  and  while 
Eleanor  sat  on  her  horse,  looking  down  the  hill  and 
crying  to  her  knights  to  come  on  quickly  and  join 
in  the  fight,  she  did  not  know  that  Anne  of  Auch 
covered  her  with  her  body  from  the  danger  of  a  stray 
shaft,  facing  the  danger  with  a  light  heart,  in  the 
hope  of  the  blessed  death  for  which  she  looked. 

Of  those  who  went  in  under  the  trees,  none  came 
back,  while  the  din  of  the  fight  rose  louder  and 
wilder,  by  which  Eleanor  guessed  that  the  enemy 
were  very  few  and  were  being  driven  up  the  hill, 
overpowered  by  numbers;  and  lest  her  own  men 
should  hamper  each  other,  she  stopped  them  and 
would  not  allow  any  more  to  go  up. 

Meanwhile  the  King  looked  on  from  below,  saying 
prayers;  for  he  was  in  mortal  dread  of  wishing  that 
the  Queen  might  be  killed,  since  that  would  have 
been  as  great  a  sin  as  if  he  had  slain  her  with  his 
own  hand ;  so  that  whereas  when  there  was  no  pres 
ent  danger  he  constantly  prayed  that  by  some  means 


VIA   CRUCIS 

he  might  be  delivered  from  the  woman  of  Belial, 
he  now  prayed  as  fervently  that  she  might  be  pre 
served.  As  soon  as  he  saw  her  forbidding  a  further 
advance,  he  took  it  for  granted  that  she  intended  to 
corne  back  and  go  up  the  valley,  and  he  gave  the 
signal  to  his  own  knights  and.  men  to  advance  in  that 
direction,  away  from  the  place  where  the  Seljuks 
were  fighting.  Indeed,  there  were  always  many  who 
were  ready  to  turn  their  backs  on  danger,  especially 
of  the  poorer  sort,  who  were  ill-armed  ;  and  immedi 
ately,  with  great  confusion  and  much  shouting  and 
pressing,  the  main  body  began  to  move  on  quickly, 
spreading  out  as  they  went,  and  completely  filling  up 
the  valley ;  but  then  they  were  crowded  again,  as  they 
went  higher,  where  the  valley  narrowed  to  the  pass, 
and  at  last  they  were  so  squeezed  and  jammed  to 
gether  that  the  horses  could  hardly  move  at  all. 

The  Queen's  ladies,  with  their  great  throng  of 
attendants  and  servants,  had  drawn  aside  at  the 
beginning  of  the  valley,  protected  by  two  or  three 
thousand  men-at-arms,  to  wait  the  end  of  the  fight 
ing,  but  she  herself  was  still  on  the  spur  of  the  hill 
before  the  woods.  Before  long  came  Sir  Gaston  de 
Castignac,  on  foot  and  covered  with  blood,  his  mail 
hacked  in  many  places  by  the  crooked  Seljuk  swords, 
and  his  three-cornered  shield  dinted  and  battered. 
He  came  to  the  Queen's  side  and  made  a  grand  bow, 
waving  his  right  hand  towards  the  trees,  and  he 
spoke  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  The  Duchess's  highway  is  clear,"  he  said.  "  The 
way  is  open  and  the  road  is  swept.  But  the  broom  —  r 

He  turned  livid  and  reeled. 


342  VIA   CRTJCIS 

"  The  broom  is  broken  !  "  he  cried,  as  he  fell  at 
full  length  almost  under  the  Arab  mare's  feet. 

He  had  been  shot  through  the  middle  with  an 
arrow,  but  had  lived  to  tell  of  victory.  In  an  instant 
the  Queen  knelt  beside  him,  trying  to  raise  his  head; 
and  he  smiled  when  he  knew  her,  and  died.  But 
there  were  gentle  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  rose  to  her 
feet  and  bade  them  bury  the  Gascon  deep,  while  she 
herself  laid  his  shield  upon  his  knees,  and  crossed  his 
hands  upon  his  breast. 

Many  others  died  there,  and  were  buried  quickly  ; 
but  the  bodies  of  the  Seljuks  were  dragged  aside, 
out  of  the  line  of  the  march  ;  and  it  was  high  noon, 
for  all  that  had  happened  had  taken  place  in 
about  two  hours.  Yet  as  the  way  was  long  to 
the  summit  of  the  pass,  those  of  Gilbert's  men  who 
had  not  been  killed  urged  the  Queen  to  inarch  on 
at  once,  in  order  that  the  camp  might  be  pitched 
by  daylight  where  Gilbert  was  waiting.  So  Eleanor 
commanded  that  all  her  people  should  follow  her 
in  the  best  order  they  could  keep,  and  she  began 
to  ride  up  the  steep  way.  But  in  the  valley  the 
King's  army  was  pressing  on  and  up  toward  the 
place  where  Gilbert  had  fought  yesterday,  where 
the  bones  of  the  slain  Seljuks  were  already  white, 
and  the  gorged  vultures  perched  sleeping  in  the 
noonday  sun. 

Two  hours  passed,  and  because  the  guides  knew  the 
way  well,  it  being  now  the  third  time  of  their  pass 
ing  there,  and  because  the  Queen  and  her  vanguard 
were  on  sure-footed  horses,  they  reached  the  top  in 
that  time,  and  saw  Gilbert  and  the  eighty  men  he 


VIA  CRUCIS  343 

still  had  with  him  sitting  on  the  rocks  in  theii 
armour,  waiting,  and  their  horses  tethered  near  by, 
but  saddled  and  bridled.  Then  Gilbert  stood  out 
before  the  rest  and  waited  for  the  Queen,  who 
cantered  forward  and  halted  beside  him.  She  began 
to  speak  somewhat  hurriedly,  and  she  constantly 
looked  about  her,  rather  than  into  his  face,  telling 
him  how  they  had  fought  in  the  wood,  and  how  the 
King  and  many  of  the  host  had  gone  round  by  the 
valley.  Thereat  Gilbert  became  very  anxious. 

"The  ladies  are  following  me,"  said  Eleanor, 
gently,  for  she  knew  why  he  was  pale. 

As  she  spoke,  a  cry  came  on  the  air,  wild,  distinct 
as  the  scream  of  the  hungry  falcon,  but  it  was  the 
cry  of  thousands. 

"Hurr!  Hurr  !  Hurr  !  " 

"  The  Seljuks  are  upon  them,"  said  Gilbert,  "  for 
that  cry  is  from  the  pass  above  the  valley.  God 
have  mercy  on  the  souls  of  Christian  men  !  " 

Dunstan,  who  knew  him  well,  brought  his  horse  at 
the  first  alarm. 

"  By  your  Grace's  leave,"  said  Gilbert,  taking  the 
bridle  to  mount,  "  I  will  take  my  men  and  do  what  I 
can  to  help  them.  I  have  explored  the  way  round 
this  mountain,  and  every  man  who  follows  me  may 
kill  ten  Seljuks  at  an  advantage,  from  above,  just  as 
the  Seljuks  are  now  slaying  the  King's  men,  below 
them." 

"Hurr!  Hurr!     Kill!  Kill!" 

Ear-piercing,  wild,  the  cry  of  slaughter  came  up 
from  the  valley  again  and  again,  and  worse  sounds 
came  now  on  the  clear  air,  the  howls  of  men 


344  VIA  CRUCIS 

pressed  together  and  powerless,  slain  in  hundreds 
with  arrows  and  stones,  and  the  unearthly  shrieks 
of  horses  wounded  to  death. 

"They  are  in  thousands,"  said  Gilbert,  listening. 
"  I  must  have  more  men." 

"  I  give  you  my  army,"  said  Eleanor.  "  Command 
all,  and  do  your  best." 

For  one  moment  Gilbert  looked  hard  at  her,  scarcely 
believing  that  she  meant  the  words.  But  she  raised 
herself  in  her  saddle,  and  called  out  in  a  loud  voice  to 
the  hundreds  of  nobles  and  knights  who  had  already 
come  up. 

"  Sir  Gilbert  Warde  commands  the  army  I  "  she 
cried.  "  Follow  the  Guide  of  Aquitaine  !  " 

There  was  light  in  his  face  as  he  silently  bowed 
his  head  and  mounted. 

"  Sirs,"  he  said,  when  he  was  in  the  saddle,  "  the 
way  by  which  I  shall  lead  you  to  rescue  the  King  is 
narrow ;  therefore  follow  me  in  good  order,  two  and 
two,  all  those  who  have  sure-footed  horses.  But 
beyond  the  defile  as  many  as  a  thousand  may  fight 
without  hindering  each  other.  The  rest  encamp 
here  and  protect  the  Queen  and  her  ladies.  For 
ward  !  " 

He  saluted  Eleanor  and  rode  away,  leaving  her 
there.  She  hesitated  and  looked  longingly  after 
him,  but  Anne  of  Auch  laid  a  hand  upon  her 
bridle. 

"Madam,"  she  said,  "your  place  is  here,  where 
there  is  no  one  to  command.  And  here  also  there 
may  be  danger  before  long." 

All  the  time,  the  dreadful  din  of  fight  came  up 


VIA  CRUCIS  345 

from  below,  louder  and  louder.  The  Seljuks  had 
waited  until  not  less  than  five  thousand  men,  with 
the  King  himself,  had  passed  through  the  narrow 
channel  from  the  lower  valley  and  choked  the 
upper  gorge,  pushed  on  by  those  behind  ;  and  then, 
from  their  hiding-places  among  the  rocks  and  trees, 
they  had  sprung  up  in  their  thousands  to  kill  those 
taken  in  the  trap  like  mice.  First  came  the  thick 
flight  of  their  arrows,  straight  and  deadly,  going 
down  with  flashes  into  the  sea  of  men ;  and  then 
great  stones  rolled  from  the  heights,  boulders  that 
crushed  .the  life  out  of  horse  and  man  and  rolled 
straight  through  the  mass  of  human  bodies,  leaving 
a  track  of  blood  behind ;  and  then  more  arrows, 
darting  hither  and  thither  in  the  sunlight  like  rock- 
swallows  ;  and  again  stones  and  boulders,  till  the 
confusion  and  the  panic  were  at  their  height,  and 
the  wild  Seljuks  sprang  down  the  sides  of  the 
gorge,  yelling  for  death,  swinging  their  scimitars, 
to  kill  more  surely  by  hand,  lest  they  should  waste 
arrows  on  dead  men. 

The  blood  was  ankle-deep  in  the  pass,  through 
which  more  and  more  of  the  Christians  were  driven 
up  to  the  slaughter  by  those  who  followed  them. 
The  King  was  forcing  his  way  through  his  own  men, 
and  with  them,  toward  the  side  where  there  were 
most  enemies.  His  sluggish  blood  was  roused  at 
last,  and  his  sword  was  out.  Nor  was  it  long  before 
he  was  able  to  fight  hand  to  hand ;  but  many  of 
those  around  him  were  slain,  because  their  arms 
were  hampered  in  the  close  press.  The  Seljuks 
made  room  by  killing,  and  climbed  upon  the  slain 


346  VIA  CRUCIS 

towards  the  living.  In  the  vast  and  screaming  din, 
no  one  could  have  heard  a  voice  of  command,  and 
the  air  was  darkening  with  the  steam  and  reek  of 
battle. 

A  full  hour  the  Seljuks  slew  and  slew,  almost 
unharmed,  and  the  Christians  were  dead  in  thou 
sands  under  their  feet.  The  King,  with  a  hundred 
followers,  was  at  bay  by  the  roots  of  a  huge  oak  tree, 
fighting  as  best  he  might,  and  killing  a  man  now  and 
then,  though  wounded  in  the  face  and  shoulder,  and 
sorely  spent.  But  he  saw  that  it  was  a  desperate 
case  and  that  all  was  lost,  and  no  more  of  his  army 
were  coming  up  to  the  rescue,  because  the  narrow  pass 
was  choked  with  dead.  So  he  began  to  sing  the 
penitential  psalms  in  time  with  the  swinging  of  his 
sword. 

It  was  towards  evening,  for  the  days  were  short, 
and  the  westering  sun  suddenly  poured  its  light 
straight  into  the  gorge  and  upon  the  rising  ground 
above.  Some  of  the  Christians  looked  up  out  of  the 
carnage,  and  the  King  turned  his  eyes  that  way 
when  he  could  spare  a  glance,  and  suddenly  the  sun 
flashed  back  from  the  height,  as  from  golden  and 
silver  mirrors  quickly  moving,  and  foremost  was  an 
azure  shield  with  a  golden  cross  flory,  and  the  Chris 
tians  knew  it  well.  Then  a  feeble  shout  went  up 
from  the  few  who  lived. 

"  The  Guide  of  Aquitaine  !  "  they  cried. 

But  they  were  not  heard,  for  suddenly  there 
•was  a  louder  cry  from  the  Seljuks,  and  it  was 
not  their  war-yell,  but  something  like  a  howl  of 
fear. 


VIA  CBUCIS  347 

"  The  Wrath  of  God !     The  White  Fiend !  " 

For  they  were  caught  in  their  own  trap,  and  death 
rose  in  their  eyes.  On  the  low  heights  above  the 
gorge  a  thousand  Christians  had  formed  in  ranks 
quickly,  with  lance  lowered  and  sword  loose  in 
sheath.  A  moment  later,  and  a  steel  cap  went 
whirling  tnrough  the  air,  glancing  and  gleaming  in 
the  sun,  till  it  fell  among  the  enemy  below,  and  then 
came  the  sharp  command,  the  leader's  single  word  : 

"Charge:" 

The  Seljuks  heard  the  terrible,  quick  clanking 
of  armour  as  the  great  troop  began  to  move,  and 
the  Guide  of  Aquitaine  swept  down  in  a  storm  of 
steel,  bareheaded,  his  fair  hair  streaming  on  the 
wind,  his  eyes  on  tire  in  the  setting  sun,  his  great 
sword  high  in  air,  the  smile  of  destruction  on  his 
even  lips. 

"The  White  Fiend!  The  Wrath  of  God!" 
screamed  the  Seljuks. 

They  tried  to  fly,  but  there  was  no  way  out, 
for  the  pass  was  choked  with  dead  below,  and 
they  must  win  or  die,  every  living  soul  of  their 
host.  So  they  turned  at  bay,  joining  their  strength, 
and  standing  as  they  could  on  heaps  of  dead  bodies. 

There,  where  they  had  slain,  Gilbert  slew  them,  and 
a  thousand  blades  flashed  red  in  the  red  sunlight,  in 
time  with  his;  and  there  was  a  low,  sure  sound  of 
killing  as  steel  went  through  flesh  and  bone  and 
was  wrenched  back  to  strike  again.  The  Seljuks 
fought  like  madmen  and  like  wild  beasts  while  they 
could ;  but  in  Gilbert's  eyes  there  was  the  awful  light 
of  victory,  and  his  arm  tired  not,  while  rank  upon 


348  VIA  CRUCIS 

rank  the  enemy  went  down,  and  the  Christians  who 
still  lived  began  to  smite  them  from  behind.  Then 
the  pass  was  filled  fuller  than  before,  and  a  small 
red  river  leaped  down  from  stone  to  stone,  following 
the  channel  to  the  broad  valley  beyond,  where  nearly 
fifty  thousand  powerless  men  watched  it  flowing 
among  them.  But  they  listened,  too,  and  the  Seljuk 
yell  grew  fainter,  because  few  were  left,  and  there 
were  few  to  cry  out. 

The  shout  of  triumphant  Christian  men  came 
ringing  down  the  evening  air  instead,  and  fear  gave 
way  to  rejoicing  and  gladness;  for  though  there 
were  many  dead  in  the  upper  valley,  and  many 
strong  knights  and  men-at-arms,  young  and  old, 
great  and  small,  lay  under  the  dead  Seljuks  who  had 
killed  them,  yet  the  great  body  of  the  army  was 
alive,  the  strength  of  the  enemy  was  broken,  and 
Gilbert  had  saved  the  King.  In  truth,  he  had 
found  him  in  an  evil  case,  with  his  back  against 
the  oak  tree,  and  his  knights  dead  around  him  ;  three 
of  the  last  Seljuks  who  lived  were  still  hacking  at 
him  with  their  crooked  swords,  while  he  sang  his 
"De  profundis,"  for  his  soul's  good,  and  used  his 
best  fence  for  his  body's  safety,  hewing  away  like 
a  strong  man  and  brave,  as  he  was,  notwithstand 
ing  his  faults;  and  he  was  sore  spent. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  taking  Gilbert's  hand,  "  ask  what 
you  will  of  me,  and  if  it  be  no  sin,  you  shall  have 
it,  for  you  have  saved  the  army  of  the  Cross." 

But  the  Englishman  smiled  and  would  ask  noth 
ing,  for  he  had  honour  enough  that  day.  Yet  he 
knew  not  that  on  the  cliff  whence  he  had  descended 


VIA  CRUCIS  349 

to  the  valley,  there  sat  two  women  who  dearly  loved 
him,  watching  him  from  first  to  last,  —  the  Queen 
and  Beatrix. 

There  they  sat,  unconsciously  clasping  hand  in 
hand,  and  their  eyes  were  wide  with  fear  for  him, 
and  yet  bright  with  pride  of  him  as  they  saw  the 
splendour  of  his  deeds,  how  his  fair  streaming  hair 
went  ever  forward  through  the  Seljuk  ranks,  and 
how  his  track  was  deep  and  red  for  others  to  follow, 
till  it  seemed  not  possible  that  one  man  could  slay 
so  many  and  be  unhurt,  and  a  sort  of  awe  came  over 
them,  as  if  he  were  a  being  beyond  nature. 

Neither  spoke,  nor  did  either  hand  loosen  on  the 
other ;  but  when  it  was  done,  and  they  saw  him  dis 
mount,  and  stand  a  little  apart  from  other  men,  rest 
ing  on  his  sword,  with  the  glory  of  the  sunset  in 
his  face  as  he  looked  down  the  valley,  then  Beatrix 
turned  to  the  Queen,  and  the  tears  of  joy  sprang 
to  her  eyes  as  she  buried  her  girl's  face  in  Eleanor's 
bosom,  and  she  was  glad  of  the  kind  arms  that  held 
her,  seeming  to  understand  all  her  joy.  But  the 
Queen's  eyes  were  dry,  her  face  was  white,  and  her 
beautiful  coral  lips  were  parched  as  in  a  fever. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IN  this  way  it  came  about  that  Gilbert,  of  whom  the 
historians  say  that  nothing  else  is  known,  was  placed 
in  command  of  the  whole  army  of  Crusaders,  to  lead 
them  through  the  enemy's  country  down  into  Syria  ; 
and  so  he  did,  well  and  bravely.  After  the  great 
battle  in  the  valley  there  was  much  fighting  still  to 
be  done,  day  by  day ;  for  the  Sel juks  retreated  foot  by 
foot,  filling  the  mountains  and  sweeping  down  like 
storm-clouds,  to  disappear  as  quickly,  leaving  blood 
behind  them.  But  Gilbert  led  the  van,  and  held  the 
whole  pilgrimage  together,  commanding  where  the 
camp  should  be  each  night,  and  ordering  the  march. 
Men  wondered  at  his  wisdom,  and  at  his  strength  to 
endure  hardship  ;  for  all  were  very  tired,  and  pro 
vision  was  scarce,  and  the  Greek  hill  people  sold  at 
a  tenfold  value  the  little  they  had  to  sell,  so  that  the 
soldiers  dined  not  every  day,  and  a  dish  of  boiled 
goat's  flesh  was  a  feast.  So  the  pilgrimage  went  on 
in  fighting  and  suffering,  and  as  time  passed  the  peo 
ple  were  the  more  in  earnest  with  themselves  and 
with  one  another,  looking  forward  to  the  promised 
forgiveness  of  sins  when  they  should  have  accom 
plished  their  vows  in  the  holy  places. 

They  came  down  at  last  from  the  mountains  to 
the  sea,  to  a  place  called  Attalia.  Thence  Gilbert 
would  have  led  them  still  by  land  into  Syria;  but  the 

350 


VIA   CRUCIS  351 

King  was  weary,  and  the  Queen  also  had  seen  the 
great  mistake  she  had  made  in  bringing  her  ladies 
into  the  pilgrimage ;  for  few  had  the  strength  of  the 
hardy  Anne  of  Auch,  or  the  spirit  of  Beatrix,  to 
endure  without  murmuring,  like  men,  and  like  very 
brave  men.  The  ladies'  train  had  become  a  company 
of  complainers,  murmuring  against  everything,  long 
ing  for  the  good  things  of  France,  and  often  crying 
out  bitterly,  even  with  tears,  that  they  had  been 
brought  out  to  waste  their  youth  and  freshness,  or 
even  their  lives,  in  a  wilderness.  Therefore  Eleanor 
consented  at  last  to  the  King's  desire,  which  was  to 
take  ship  from  Attalia  to  Saint  Simeon's  Harbour, 
which  is  close  to  Antioch.  In  Antioch  also  reigned 
her  uncle,  Count  Raymond,  a  man  of  her  own  blood, 
and  thinking  as  she  thought ;  him  she  now  desired 
to  see  and  consult  with,  because  he  knew  the  world, 
and  was  an  honourable  man,  and  of  good  counsel. 
Yet  there  was  danger  there,  too,  for  the  King  had 
once  believed  that  this  Count  Raymond  loved  her, 
when  he  had  been  at  the  court,  and  the  King  was 
ever  very  jealous  and  sour. 

He  would  have  brought  the  whole  army  to  Antioch 
with  him,  but  a  great  outcry  arose ;  for,  whereas 
all  the  great  barons  and  knights  were  for  the  safer 
journey,  the  poorer  sort  of  pilgrims  feared  the 
sea  more  than  they  feared  the  Seljuks,  and  they 
would  not  take  ship.  So  at  last  the  King  let 
them  go,  and  they,  not  knowing  whither  they  went, 
boasted  that  they  should  reach  Antioch  first.  He 
gave  them  money  and  certain  guides  whom  he 
trusted. 


352  VIA  CRUCIS 

Then  Gilbert,  seeing  that  there  was  a  choice  of 
two  ways,  sat  down  at  night  and  debated  what  he 
should  do.  He  desired  to  follow  Beatrix  with  the 
ships,  for  he  had  not  seen  Sir  Arnold  de  Curboil 
since  Christmas  Eve,  and  he  believed  that  he  had 
gone  back  to  Ephesus  to  sail  for  Syria,  so  that  at 
the  present  time  he  could  not  suddenly  surprise  his 
daughter  and  carry  her  away,  to  force  her  to  a  mar 
riage  of  which  heirs  might  be  born  to  his  great 
possessions  in  England.  Gilbert  knew  also  that  his 
command  over  the  whole  army  was  ended,  that  the 
enemy's  country  was  now  passed,  and  that  all  were 
to  join  forces  with  Count  Raymond  to  win  back 
Edessa  in  the  spring.  He  should  therefore  have 
more  time  and  leisure  to  protect  Beatrix  if  needful; 
and  this  was  a  strong  thing  to  move  him,  for  he  had 
seen  her  many  times  of  late,  and  he  loved  her  with 
all  his  heart. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  when  he  saw  how  many 
thousands  of  the  poorer  people,  who  had  taken  the 
Cross  in  simple  faith  that  God  would  provide  for  the 
journey,  were  about  to  go  up  into  the  passes  again, 
to  fight  their  own  way  through,  without  King  or 
Queen  or  army,  his  charity  bade  him  stay  with  them 
and  lead  them,  as  he  only  could,  to  live  or  die  with 
them,  rather  than  to  go  safely  by  water.  So  it  was 
hard  to  decide  which  he  should  do,  and  he  would  not 
see  Beatrix,  lest  she  should  persuade  him ;  nor  would 
he  let  himself  think  too  much  of  the  people,  nor  mix 
with  them,  for  they  knew  him,  and  honoured  him 
greatly,  and  would  have  carried  him  on  their 
shoulders  to  make  him  their  leader  if  he  would. 


VIA   CRTJCIS  353 

Therefore  his  debating  with  himself  came  to  noth 
ing,  and  he  slept  ill. 

In  the  early  morning,  as  he  was  walking  by  the 
seashore,  he  met  the  Lady  Anne  of  Auch,  with  two 
women  behind  her,  coming  back  from  the  mass,  and 
they  stood  and  talked  together.  As  he  looked  into 
her  face  he  saw  friendship  there,  and  suddenly, 
though  he  was  often  slow  of  impulse,  he  began  to 
tell  her  his  trouble,  walking  beside  her. 

"  Sir  Gilbert,"  she  said  quietly,  "  I  loved  a  good 
man,  who  was  my  husband,  and  he  loved  me;  but  he 
was  killed,  and  they  brought  him  home  to  me  dead. 
I  tell  you,  Sir  Gilbert,  that  the  true  love  of  man  and 
woman  is  the  greatest  and  best  thing  in  all  the 
world ;  but  when  two  love  one  another,  if  their 
love  be  not  the  greatest  thing  save  honour,  then 
it  is  not  true,  nor  worthy  to  be  reckoned  in  account. 
Think  well  whether  you  love  this  lady  truly,  as 
I  mean,  or  not,  and  if  you  do,  there  can  be  no  more 
doubt." 

"  Lady  Aline,"  said  Gilbert,  when  he  had  thought 
a  little  while,  "  you  are  a  very  honourable  woman, 
and  your  counsel  is  good." 

After  they  had  talked,  they  parted,  and  Gilbert 
went  back  to  his  lodging,  being  determined  to  go 
to  Antioch  by  sea  with  the  King  and  Queen ;  but 
still  he  was  sorry  for  the  poor  pilgrims  who  were 
to  be  left  behind  to  fight  a  way  through  for  them 
selves. 

The  great  ships  that  had  been  hired  for  the  voyage 
were  heavy  and  unwieldy  vessels  to  see,  but  yet  swift 
through  the  water,  whether  the  vast  lateen  sails  drew 

2A 


354  VIA  CRUCIS 

full  with  a  fair  wind  or  were  close-reefed  in  a  gale, 
till  they  seemed  mere  jibs  bent  to  the  long  yards, 
or  even  when  in  a  flat  calm  the  vessels  were  sent 
along  by  a  hundred  sweeps,  fifty  on  each  side  ;  and 
they  were  partly  Greek  galleys  and  partly  they 
were  of  Amalfi,  whose  citizens  had  all  the  commerce 
of  the  East,  and  their  own  quarter  in  every  town 
and  harbour,  from  the  Pireeus  round  by  Constanti 
nople  and  all  Asia  Minor  and  Egypt,  as  far  as  Tunis 
itself. 

A  clear  northwest  wind  began  to  blow  on  the  very 
day  fixed  for  departure,  and  the  big  galleys  swept 
out  one  by  one,  close  upon  each  other,  till  they 
were  outside  and  hoisted  their  sails,  the  sea  being 
very  smooth  under  the  land  ;  and  when  they  had 
run  out  two  or  three  miles,  with  the  wind  aft,  they 
wore  ship,  one  after  another,  coming  to  a  little,  to  get 
their  sheets  in,  and  then  holding  off  to  jibe  the  great 
sails  for  the  port  tack,  with  much  creaking  of  yards 
and  flapping  of  canvas.  Then,  as  they  ran  free 
along  the  coast  to  the  eastward,  the  wind  quartering, 
they  got  out  great  booms  to  windward,  guyed  fore 
and  aft,  and  down  to  the  forward  beaching-hooks  at 
the  water's  edge,  at  the  first  streak  under  the  wales ; 
and  they  set  light  sails,  hauling  the  tacks  well 
out  and  making  the  sheet  fast  after  the  southern 
fashion,  and  then  swaying  away  at  the  halyards, 
till  the  white  canvas  was  up  to  the  mast-head, 
bellying  full,  and  as  steady  as  the  upper  half  of  a 
half-moon. 

Before  many  days  they  came  to  Saint  Simeon's 
Harbour,  which  was  the  port  of  Antioch,  and  saw 


VIA   CRUCIS  355 

the  mighty  walls  and  towers  on  the  heights  a  dozen 
miles  inshore  ;  and  when  Gilbert  looked  from  the 
deck  of  his  ship,  he  was  glad  that  the  army  was  not 
to  besiege  that  great  and  strong  fortress,  since  it 
belonged  to  Count  Raymond,  the  Queen's  uncle. 
But  if  he  had  known  what  things  were  to  happen 
to  him  there,  rather  than  have  ridden  up  to  the 
walled  city  he  would  have  gone  barefoot  to  Jeru 
salem,  to  fulfil  his  vow  as  he  might. 

Count  Raymond,  with  his  broad  shoulders  and 
bronzed  face  and  dark  hair  just  turning  gray  at  the 
temples,  came  down  to  meet  the  army  at  the  shore; 
and  first  he  embraced  the  King,  according  to  custom, 
and  then  he  kissed  the  Queen,  his  niece,  not  once, 
but  four  or  five  times,  and  she  kissed  him,  for  they 
were  very  glad  to  see  each  other ;  but  it  is  not  true, 
as  some  have  said  in  their  chronicles,  that  there  were 
thoughts  of  love  between  them.  Queen  Eleanor  had 
many  bitter  enemies,  and  her  sins  were  almost  as 
many  as  her  good  deeds,  but  love  for  Count  Ray 
mond  was  not  among  them. 

Nevertheless,  King  Louis  was  very  jealous  as  soon 
as  he  saw  the  two  embracing,  for  he  had  always  be 
lieved  that  there  was  more  than  he  knew.  But  he 
said  nothing,  for  he  feared  his  Queen.  So  there  were 
great  rejoicings  in  Antioch,  when  all  the  ladies  and 
the  barons  and  other  nobles  were  installed  there  to 
keep  Easter  together;  and  though  they  had  still  some 
days  of  fasting  during  Holy  Week,  they  were  so  glad 
to  be  in  the  great  city,  and  so  much  lightened  of 
trouble  by  having  left  the  poorer  pilgrims  to  shift 
for  themselves,  that  it  would  have  been  easy  for 


356  VIA  CRUCIS 

them  to  live  on  bread  and  water,  instead  of  eating 
the  dainty  dishes  of  good  fish,  and  the  imitations 
of  eggs  made  with  flour  and  saffron  and  blanched 
almonds,  and  the  delicate  sweetmeats,  and  all  the 
many  good  things  which  Count  Raymond's  fifty 
cooks  knew  how  to  prepare  for  Lent.  For  the 
Count  lived  luxuriously,  though  he  was  a  good 
fighter  at  need. 

Most  of  all,  he  was  a  keen  man,  with  few  scruples, 
and  the  Queen  began  to  ask  him  to  help  her  in 
getting  her  marriage  annulled,  because  she  could  no 
longer  bear  to  be  the  wife  of  a  spoon-faced  monk, 
as  she  called  the  King ;  whereat  Count  Raymond 
laughed.  Then  he  thought  awhile  and  bent  his 
broad  brows  ;  but  soon  his  face  cleared,  for  he  had 
found  a  remedy.  The  King,  he  said,  was  surely 
Eleanor's  cousin  and  within  the  prohibited  degrees 
of  consanguinity,  so  that  the  marriage  was  null 
and  void  ;  and  the  Pope  would  be  obliged  against 
his  will  to  adhere  to  the  rule  of  the  Church  and  pro 
nounce  it  so.  They  were  cousins  in  the  seventh 
degree,  he  said,  because  the  King  was  descended 
from  Eleanor's  great-great-great-great-grandfather, 
William  Towhead,  Duke  of  Guienne,  whose  daugh 
ter,  Adelaide  of  Poitiers,  married  Hugh  Capet, 
King  of  France ;  and  the  seventh  degree  of  consan 
guinity  was  still  prohibited,  and  no  dispensation 
had  been  given,  nor  even  asked  for. 

At  first  the  Queen  laughed,  but  presently  she  sent 
for  the  Bishop  of  Metz,  and  asked  him  ;  and  he  said 
that  Count  Raymond  spoke  truly,  but  that  he  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  since  it  had  never 


VIA   CETJCIS  357 

been  the  intention  of  the  Church  that  her  rules  should 
be  misused.  Yet  it  is  said  that  he  was  afterwards  of 
the  Council  which  declared  that  there  had  been  no 
marriage. 

So,  being  sure,  the  Queen  went  to  the  King  and 
told  him  to  his  face  that  she  had  meant  to  marry  a 
king,  and  not  a  monk  as  he  was,  and  that  she  had 
now  found  out  that  her  marriage  was  no  marriage, 
wherefore  he  was  living  in  mortal  sin ;  and  if  he 
would  save  his  soul  he  must  repudiate  her  as  soon 
as  they  should  have  returned  to  France.  At  this 
the  King  was  overcome  with  grief  and  wept  bit 
terly,  not  because  he  was  to  be  delivered  from  the 
woman  of  Belial,  as  he  had  prayed,  but  because  he 
had  unwittingly  lived  in  such  great  sin  so  many 
years.  She  laughed  and  went  away,  leaving  him 
weeping. 

From  that  time  she  spent  her  days  and  her  even 
ings  in  consultation  with  Count  Raymond,  and  they 
were  continually  closeted  together  in  her  apartment, 
which  was  in  one  of  the  western  towers  of  the  palace 
and  looked  out  over  the  city  walls  towards  the  sea. 
It  was  early  spring,  and  the  air  smelt  of  Syrian 
flowers  and  was  tender  to  breathe. 

Although  the  King  was  now  sure  that  Eleanor  was 
not  his  wife,  he  continued  to  be  very  jealous  of  her, 
because  he  had  once  loved  her  in  his  dull  fashion, 
and  she  was  very  beautiful.  Therefore,  when  he  was 
not  praying,  he  was  watching  and  spying,  to  see 
whether  she  were  alone  with  Count  Raymond.  Cer 
tain  writers  have  spoken  of  the  great  Saladin  at  this 
time,  saying  that  she  met  him  secretly,  for  the  de- 


358  VIA  CRUCIS 

liverance  of  her  kinsman  Sandebeuil  de  Sanzay,  who 
had  been  taken  prisoner,  and  that  she  loved  Saladin 
for  his  generosity,  and  that  the  King  was  jealous  of 
him  ;  which  things  are  lies,  because  Saladin  was  at 
that  time  but  seven  years  old. 

Daily,  as  he  watched,  the  King  grew  very  sure  that 
Raymond  loved  Eleanor,  and  he  swore  by  his  hope 
of  salvation  that  such  things  should  not  be.  In  this 
way  the  feast  of  Easter  passed,  and  there  were  great 
rejoicings,  and  feastings,  and  all  manner  of  delight. 
Also  during  this  time  Gilbert  saw  Beatrix  freely,  so 
that  their  love  grew  more  and  more ;  but  he  seldom 
spoke  with  the  Queen,  arid  then  briefly. 

Now  Eleanor  lived  in  the  western  tower,  and  only 
one  staircase  led  up  to  the  vestibule  of  her  apartments, 
by  which  way  Count  Raymond  came,  and  the  great 
nooies  when  she  summoned  them,  and  the  guards 
also.  But  beyond  her  inner  chamber  there  was  a 
door  opening  into  the  long  wing  of  the  palace  where 
all  her  ladies  were  lodged,  and  by  that  door  she  went 
to  them  and  they  came  to  her.  Often  the  Lady 
Anne  came  in,  and  Beatrix,  and  some  of  the  others 
who  were  more  especially  her  familiars,  and  they 
found  the  Queen  and  Count  Raymond  sitting  in 
chairs,  and  talking  without  constraint,  and  some 
times  playing  at  chess  by  the  open  window  which 
looked  out  on  the  west  balcony.  They  thought  no 
evil,  for  they  knew  that  he  had  become  her  counsel 
lor  in  the  matter  of  the  repudiation ;  and  Beatrix 
cared  not,  for  she  knew  well  that  the  Queen  loved 
Gilbert,  and  she  never  saw  him  there. 

On  an  evening  in  the  week  after  Easter  the  King 


VIA  CEUCIS  359 

determined  that  he  would  see  the  Queen  himself  and 
tell  her  his  mind.  He  therefore  took  two  nobles  for 
an  escort,  with  torchbearers  and  a  few  guards ;  and 
when  he  had  descended  into  the  main  court,  he 
walked  across  to  the  west  side  and  went  up  into 
Eleanor's  tower ;  for  he  would  not  go  through  the 
ladies'  wing,  lest  his  eyes  should  see  some  fair  and 
noble  maiden,  or  some  young  dame  of  great  beauty, 
whereby  his  pious  thoughts  might  be  disturbed  ever 
so  little. 

Having  come  to  the  vestibule,  he  demanded  admit 
tance  to  the  Queen's  chamber ;  and  the  young  Lord 
of  Sanzay,  who  was  in  waiting,  begged  him  to  wait 
while  he  himself  inquired  if  the  Queen  were  at  leis 
ure.  Then  the  King  was  angry,  and  said  that  he 
waited  for  no  one,  and  he  went  forward  to  go  in. 
But  Sanzay  stood  before  the  door  and  bade  the 
Gascon  guards  form  in  rank  and  keep  it  till  he 
should  come  back.  The  King  saw  that  he  had 
small  chance  of  forcing  a  way,  and  he  stood  still, 
repeating  some  prayers  the  while,  lest  he  should 
draw  his  sword  and  fight,  out  of  sheer  anger.  Then 
Sanzay  came  back. 

"  My  lord  King,"  he  said  in  a  clear  voice,  "  her 
Grace  bids  me  say  that  she  has  no  leisure  now,  and 
that  when  she  has  need  of  a  monk  she  will  send 
for  him." 

At  the  great  insult,  swords  were  out  as  soon  as  the 
words,  and  the  broken  reflections  of  steel  flashed  red 
under  the  high  lamps  and  in  the  torchlight ;  for  the 
King  drew  to  strike  down  Sanzay  where  he  stood,  and 
his  nobles  and  guards  drew  with  him,  while  the  Gas- 


360  VIA   CRTJCIS 

cons  were  as  quick  as  they.  But  Sanzay  would  not 
draw  bis  sword,  for  he  had  once  saved  the  King's  life 
in  battle,  and  he  thought  it  not  knightly.  Then 
some  blows  were  exchanged  and  blood  was  shed  ;  but 
presently,  being  at  a  disadvantage,  the  King  stepped 
back  and  lowered  his  point. 

"  Sirs,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  seemly  that  we  of  the 
Cross  should  kill  one  another.  Let  us  go." 

When  Sanzay  heard  this,  he  called  his  guards  back, 
and  the  King  went  away  discomfited.  In  the  court 
yard  he  turned  aside  and  sat  down  upon  a  great 
stone  seat. 

"  Fetch  me  Sir  Gilbert  Warde,"  he  said,  "  and  let 
him  come  quickly." 

He  waited  silently  till  the  knight  came  and  stood 
before  him  in  his  surcoat  and  mantle,  with  only  his 
dagger  in  his  belt ;  and  the  King  bade  all  his  at 
tendants  go  away  to  a  distance,  leaving  a  torch 
stuck  in  the  ring  in  the  wall. 

He  desired  of  Gilbert  that  he  should  take  a  force 
of  trusted  men  who  would  obey  him,  and  go  up  the 
west  tower  to  bring  the  Queen  out  a  prisoner  ;  for  he 
would  not  stay  in  Antioch  another  night,  nor  leave 
her  behind,  and  he  meant  to  ride  down  to  the  har 
bour  and  take  ship  for  Ptolemais,  leaving  the  army 
to  follow  him  on  the  morrow.  But  for  a  space 
Gilbert  answered  nothing. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  him  impossible  to  do  such  a 
deed,  and  but  for  courtesy  he  would  have  turned  on  his 
heel  and  left  the  King  sitting  there.  But  as  he  stood 
thinking,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  better  seem  to 
obey,  and  go  and  warn  the  Queen  of  her  danger. 


VIA   CETJCIS  361 

"My  lord,"  he  answered  at  last,  "I  will  go." 

Though  he  said  not  what  he  would  do,  the  King 
was  satisfied,  and  rose  and  went  toward  his  own 
apartments,  to  order  his  departure. 

Then  Gilbert  went  and  sought  out  ten  knights 
whom  he  knew,  and  each  of  them  called  ten  of  their 
men-at-arms,  and  they  took  their  swords  with  them, 
and  torches ;  but  Gilbert  had  only  his  dagger,  for 
those  he  had  chosen  were  all  of  them  Queen's  men 
and  would  have  died  for  her.  So  they  went  together 
up  the  broad  steps  of  the  tower,  and  the  Gascons  heard 
the  hundred  *  footfalls  in  fear  and  much  trembling, 
supposing  that  the  King  had  come  back  with  a  great 
force  to  slay  them  and  go  in.  Then  Sanzay  drew 
his  sword  and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
bidding  his  men  keep  the  narrow  way  till  they 
should  all  be  dead  for  the  Queen's  sake.  They 
were  Gascons,  and  were  ready  to  die,  but  they  held 
their  breath  as  they  listened  to  the  steady  tramping 
on  the  stone  steps  below. 

In  the  torchlight  they  saw  Gilbert's  face,  and 
the  faces  of  Queen's  men,  and  that  there  were  no 
swords  out ;  nevertheless,  they  kept  theirs  drawn 
and  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  on  the  landing 
Gilbert  stood  still,  for  they  did  not  make  way  for 
him. 

"  Sir  Gilbert,"  said  Sanzay,  "  I  am  here  to  keep 
the  Queen's  door,  and  though  we  be  friends,  I  shall 
not  let  you  pass  while  I  live,  if  you  mean  her  any 
violence." 

"Sir,"  answered  Gilbert,  "I  come  unarmed,  as 
you  see,  and  by  no  means  to  fight  with  you.  I  pray 


362  VIA  CRUCIS 

you,  sir,  go  in  and  tell  the  Queen  that  I  am  without, 
and  have  her  men  with  me,  and  would  speak  with 
her  for  her  safety." 

Then  Sanzay  bade  his  men  stand  back,  and  the 
knights  and  men-at-arms  crowded  the  vestibule, 
while  he  went  in  ;  and  immediately  he  came  out 
again,  with  a  clear  face. 

"  The  Queen  is  alone,  and  bids  the  Guide  of 
Aquitaine  pass,"  he  said. 

All  stood  aside,  and  he,  taller  than  they,  and 
grave  and  keen  of  face,  went  in ;  and  the  door  was 
closed  behind  him,  and  within  that  there  was  a 
heavy  Eastern  curtain,  so  that  no  voices  could  be 
heard  from  one  side  to  the  other. 

Eleanor  sat  under  the  warm  lamplight,  near  the 
open  window,  for  the  night  was  warm.  Her  head 
was  uncovered,  her  russet-golden  hair  fell  in  great 
waves  upon  her  shoulders  and  to  the  ground  behind 
her  chair,  and  she  wore  no  mantle,  but  only  a  close- 
fitting  gown  of  cream-white  silk  with  deep  em 
broideries  of  silver  and  pearls.  She  was  very 
beautiful,  but  very  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  veiled. 
Gilbert  came  and  stood  before  her,  but  she  did  not 
hold  out  her  hand,  as  he  had  expected. 

"  Why  have  you  come  to  me  ?  "  she  asked  after  a 
time,  looking  out  at  the  balcony,  and  not  at  him. 

"The  King,  Madam,  has  bidden  me  take  you  a 
prisoner  to  him,  in  order  that  he  may  carry  you 
away  by  sea  to  Ptolemais  and  to  Jerusalem." 

While  he  was  speaking,  she  slowly  turned  her  face 
to  him,  and  stared  at  his  coldly. 

"  And  you  are  come  to  do  as  you  are  bidden,  get- 


VIA   CETTCIS  363 

ting  admittance  to  me  stealthily,  with  men  of  my  own 
who  have  betrayed  me  ?  " 

Gilbert  turned  white,  and  then  he  smiled  as  he 
answered  her. 

"No.  I  am  come  to  warn  your  Grace  and  to 
defend  you  against  all  violence,  with  my  life." 

Eleanor's  face  changed  and  softened,  and  again  she 
looked  out  at  the  balcony. 

"  Why  should  you  defend  me  ? "  she  asked  sadly, 
after  a  pause.  "  What  am  I  to  you,  that  you  should 
fight  for  me?  I  sent  you  out  to  die — why  should 
you  wish  me  to  be  safe  ?  " 

"You  have  been  the  best  friend  to  me,  and  the 
kindest,  that  ever  woman  was  to  man." 

"A  friend?  No.  I  was  never  your  friend.  I 
sent  you  out  to  death,  because  I  loved  you,  and 
trusted  that  I  might  see  you  never  again,  and  that 
you  might  die  honourably  for  the  Cross  and  your 
vows.  Instead,  you  won  glory,  and  saved  us  all  — 
all  but  me  !  You  owe  me  no  thanks  for  such,  friend 
ship." 

She  looked  at  him  long,  and  he  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  what  a  man  you  are  ! "  she  cried  suddenly. 
"  What  a  man  ! " 

He  blushed  like  a  girl  at  the  praise,  for  her  soul 
was  in  the  words,  and  her  great  love  for  him,  the 
only  thing  in  all  her  life  that  had  ever  been  above 
herself. 

"  What  a  man  you  are  ! "  she  said  again,  more 
softly.  "  Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  the  Queen,  the  fair 
est  woman  in  the  world,  would  give  you  her  soul  and 
her  body  and  the  hope  of  her  life  to  come — and  you 


364  VIA  CRUCIS 

are  faithful  to  a  poor  girl  whom  you  loved  when  you 
were  a  boy  !  A  hundred  thousand  brave  men  stand 
by  to  see  me  die,  and  you  alone  take  death  by  the 
throat  and  strangle  him  off,  as  you  would  strangle  a 
bloodhound,  with  those  hands  of  yours  !  I  send  you 
out  —  oh,  how  selfishly  !  —  that  you  may  at  least 
die  bravely  for  your  vow  and  leave  me  at  sad  peace 
with  your  memory,  and  you  fight  through  a  hell  of 
foes  and  save  the  King  and  me  and  all,  and  come 
back  to  me  in  glory — my  Guide  of  Aquitaine  ! " 

She  had  risen  and  stood  before  him,  her  face  dead 
white  with  passion,  and  her  eyes  deep-fired  by  a  love 
that  was  beyond  any  telling.  And  though  she  would 
not  move,  her  arms  went  out  toward  him. 

"How  can  any  woman  help  loving  you!"  she 
cried  passionately. 

She  sank  into  her  chair  again,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  He  stood  still  a  moment,  and  then 
came  and  knelt  on  one  knee  beside  her,  resting  his 
hand  upon  the  carved  arm  of  her  chair. 

"I  cannot  love  you,  but  in  so  far  as  I  may  be 
faithful  to  another  I  give  you  my  whole  life,"  he 
said  very  gently. 

As  he  spoke  the  last  words,  the  curtain  of  the 
inner  apartments  was  softly  raised,  and  Beatrix 
stood  there ;  for  she  had  thought  that  the  Queen 
was  alone.  But  she  heard  not  the  beginning  of  the 
speech,  and  she  grew  quite  cold,  and  could  not  speak 
nor  go  away. 

Eleanor's  hands  left  her  face  and  fell  together  upon 
Gilbert's  right. 

"  I  have  not  mine  to  give,"  she  answered  in  a  low 


VIA   CEUCIS  365 

voice.  "  It  is  yours  already  —  and  I  would  that  you 
were  not  English,  that  I  might  be  your  sovereign 
and  make  you  great  among  men  —  or  that  I  were 
England's  Queen — and  that  may  come  to  pass,  and 
you  shall  see  what  I  will  do  for  love  of  you  —  I 
would  marry  that  boy  of  the  Plantagenets,  if  it 
could  serve  you ! " 

"Madam,"  said  Gilbert,  "think  of  your  own 
present  safety — the  King  is  very  angry — " 

"  Did  I  think  of  your  safety  when  I  sent  you  out 
to  lead  us?  Now  if  you  are  here,  am  I  not  safe? 
Gilbert—" 

She  let  her  voice  caress  his  name,  and  her  lips 
lingered  with  it,  and  she  laid  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders.  As  he  knelt  beside  her  —  she  bent  to  his 
face. 

"  Best  and  bravest  living  man  "  —  it  was  a  whisper 
now  —  "  love  of  my  life  —  heart  of  my  heart  —  this 
last  time  —  this  only  once  —  and  then  good-by." 

She  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  and  leapt  from 
her  seat  in  horror,  for  there  was  another  voice  in  the 
room,  with  a, hurt  cry. 

"Oh,  Gilbert!  Gilbert!" 

Beatrix  was  reeling  on  her  feet,  and  caught  the 
curtain,  lest  she  fall,  and  her  face  of  agony  was  still 
turned  toward  the  two,  as  they  stood  together.  Gil 
bert  sprang  forward,  when  he  understood,  and  caught 
the  girl  in  his  arms  and  brought  her  to  the  light, 
trembling  like  a  falling  leaf.  Then  she  started  in 
his  arms  and  struggled  wildly  to  be  free,  and  twisted 
her  neck  lest  he  should  kiss  her;  but  he  held  her 
fast. 


366  VIA  CRTJCIS 

"  Beatrix  !  You  do  not  understand  —  you  did  not 
hear !  "  He  tried  to  make  her  listen  to  him. 

"I  heard  !  "  she  cried,  still  struggling.  "I  saw  !  I 
know !  Let  me  go  —  oh,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  go  !  " 

Gilbert's  arms  relaxed,  and  she  sprang  back  from 
him  two  paces,  and  faced  the  Queen. 

"  You  have  won  ! "  she  cried,  in  a  breaking  voice. 
"  You  have  him  body  and  soul,  as  you  swore  you 
would !  But  do  not  say  that  I  have  not  understood  ! " 

"  I  have  given  him  to  you,  soul  and  body,"  answered 
Eleanor,  sadly.  "  Might  I  not  even  bid  him  good-by, 
as  a  friend  might  ?  " 

"  You  are  false  —  falser  each  than  the  other," 
answered  Beatrix,  in  white  anger.  "  You  have  played 
with  me,  tricked  me,  made  me  your  toy  —  " 

"  Did  you  hear  this  man  say  that  he  did  not  love 
me,  before  I  bade  him  good-by?"  asked  Eleanor, 
gravely,  almost  sternly. 

"  He  has  said  it  to  me,  but  not  to  you,  never  to  you 
—  never  to  the  woman  he  loves  !  " 

"  I  never  loved  the  Queen,"  said  Gilbert.  "  On 
jny  soul  —  on  the  Holy  Cross  —  " 

"  Never  loved  her  ?  And  you  saved  her  life  before 
mine  —  " 

*'  And  you  said  that  I  did  well  —  " 

*'  It  was  all  a  lie  —  a  cruel  lie  —  "  The  girl's  voice 
almost  broke,  but  she  choked  down  the  terrible  tears, 
and  got  words  again.  "  It  would  have  been  braver 
to  have  told  me  long  ago  —  I  should  not  have  died 
then,  for  I  loved  you  less." 

Eleanor  came  a  step  nearer  and  spoke  very  quietly 
and  kindly. 


VIA  CETJCIS  367 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  said.  "  Sir  Gilbert  is  sent 
by  the  King  to  take  me  as  a  prisoner,  that  I  may  be 
carried  away  to  Jerusalem  this  very  night.  Come, 
you  shall  hear  the  voices  of  the  soldiers  who  are 
waiting  for  me." 

She  led  Beatrix  to  the  door  and  lifted  the  curtain, 
so  that  through  the  wooden  panels  the  girl  could  hear 
the  talking  of  many  voices,  and  the  clank  of  steel. 
Then  Eleanor  brought  her  back. 

"  But  he  would  not  take  me,"  she  said,  "  and  he 
warned  me  of  my  danger." 

"  No  wonder  —  he  loves  you  !  " 

"  He  does  not  love  me,  though  I  love  him,  and  he 
has  said  so  to-night.  And  I  know  that  he  loves  you 
and  is  faithful  to  you  —  " 

Beatrix  laughed  wildly. 

"  Faithful !  He  ?  There  is  no  faith  in  his  greatest 
oath,  nor  in  his  smallest  word  !  " 

"  You  are  mad,  child  ;  he  never  lied  in  all  his  life 
to  me  or  you  —  he  could  not  lie." 

"  Then  he  has  deceived  you,  too  —  Queen,  Duchess  ; 
you  are  only  a  woman,  after  all,  and  he  has  made 
sport  of  you,  as  he  has  of  me  !  "  Again  she  laughed, 
half  furiously. 

"If  he  has  deceived  me  he  has  indeed  deceived 
you,"  answered  Eleanor,  "for  he  has  told  me  very 
plainly  that  he  loves  you.  And  now  I  will  not  stand 
between  you  and  him,  even  in  the  mistake  you  made. 
I  love  him,  yes.  I  have  loved  him  enough  to  give  him 
up,  because  he  loves  you.  I  love  him  so  well  that  I 
will  not  take  his  warning  and  save  myself  from  the 
King's  anger,  and  I  know  not  what  he  and  his 


368  VIA  CEUCIS 

monks  will  do  to  me.  Good-by,  Sir  Gilbert  Warde 
—  Beatrix,  good-by." 

"  This  is  some  comedy,"  answered  the  girl,  ex 
asperated. 

"  No  —  by  the  living  truth,  it  is  no  comedy," 
answered  the  Queen. 

She  looked  once  more  into  Gilbert's  face,  and 
then  turned  away,  stately  and  sad.  With  one 
movement  she  drew  aside  the  great  curtain,  and  with 
the  next  she  opened  wide  the  door,  and  the  loud 
clamour  of  the  knights  and  men-at-arms  came  in  like 
a  wave.  Then  it  ceased  suddenly,  as  Eleanor  spoke 
to  them  in  clear  tones. 

"  I  am  the  King's  prisoner.     Take  me  to  him  !  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  Gas 
cons  who  had  fought  with  the  King  and  his  men  cried 
out  fiercely. 

"  We  will  not  let  you  go !  We  will  not  let  our 
Duchess  go  1 " 

They  feared  some  evil  for  her,  and  were  loyal  men 
to  her,  hating  the  King.  But  Eleanor  raised  her 
hand  to  motion  them  back,  for  their  faces  were  fierce, 
and  their  hands  were  on  their  swords. 

"  Make  way  for  me,  if  you  will  not  take  me  to  him," 
she  said  proudly. 

Then  Sanzay,  her  kinsman,  stepped  before  the  rest, 
and  spoke. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  the  Duchess  of  Gascony  can 
not  be  prisoner  to  the  King  of  France,  while  there 
are  Gascons.  If  your  Grace  will  go  to  the  King, 
we  will  go  also,  and  we  shall  see  who  is  to  be  a 
prisoner." 


VIA  CRUCIS  369 

At  this  there  was  a  great  shout  that  rang  up  to 
the  vault  of  the  lofty  vestibule,  and  down  the  stcne 
steps  and  out  into  the  courtyard.  Eleanor  smiled 
serenely,  for  she  knew  her  men. 

"  Go  with  me,  then,"  she  said,  "  and  see  that  no 
bodily  harm  comes  to  me.  But  in  this  matter  I  shall 
do  the  King's  will." 

In  the  room  behind,  the  words  echoed  clearly,  and 
Beatrix  turned  to  G  .oert. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  it  is  but  a  play  that  you 
have  thought  of  between  you,  and  nothing  more." 

"  Can  you  not  believe  us?  "he  asked  reproachfully. 

"  I  shall  believe  you  when  I  know  that  you  love 
me,"  she  answered,  and  turned  away,  towards  the 
door  of  the  inner  apartments. 

Gilbert  followed  her. 

"  Beatrix  !  "  he  cried.     "  Beatrix  !     Hear  me  !  " 

She  turned  once  more,  with  a  face  like  stone. 

"I  have  heard  you,  I  have  heard  her,  and  I  do 
not  believe  you,"  she  answered. 

Without  another  word  she  left  him  and  went  out. 
He  stood  looking  after  her  for  a  moment,  while  his 
calm  face  darkened  slowly  ;  and  his  anger  was  slow 
and  lasting,  as  the  heating  of  a  furnace  for  the  smelt 
ing.  He  stooped  and  picked  up  his  cap,  which  had 
fallen  to  the  floor,  and  then  he,  too,  followed  the 
Queen,  through  the  vestibule  and  stairs  and  court 
yard,  to  the  King's  presence. 

iB 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THAT  night  they  left  hastily  and  went  down  to 
the  sea  with  torches  ;  but  it  was  dawn  when  they 
were  on  board  one  of  the  great  strips,  and  the  hawsers 
were  cast  off,  and  the  crew  began  to  heave  up 
the  anchor.  In  his  anger,  Gilbert  had  called  his  men, 
and  had  gone  on  board  also,  and  many  hours  passed 
before  he  realized  what  he  had  done.  Then  he  be 
gan  to  torment  himself. 

His  angry  manhood  told  him  that  he  was  just 
and  that  he  should  not  bear  a  girl's  unbelief  when 
he  was  manifestly  in  the  right ;  and  his  love  an 
swered  that  he  had  left  Beatrix  without  protection 
and  perhaps  at  the  mercy  of  her  father,  since  he  might 
come  by  sea  at  any  moment  and  claim  her  from 
Count  Raymond,  who  would  give  her  up  without 
opposition.  He  wondered  also  why  Sir  Arnold  had 
not  appeared,  and  whether,  having  sailed  from 
Ephesus,  he  had  been  shipwrecked.  But  his  thoughts 
soon  turned  back  to  his  work,  and  he  sat  on  the  low 
rail  by  the  main-rigging,  looking  down  at  the  blue 
water  as  the  ship  ran  smoothly  along.  What  was 
there  in  Beatrix  to  hold  him,  after  all  ?  It  was 
nothing  but  a  boyish  memory,  revived  by  a  mis 
taken  idea  of  faith. 

But  suddenly  he  felt  within  him  the  aching  hollow 
and  the  grinding  hunger  of  heart  that  the  loved 

370 


VIA   CRUCIS  371 

woman  leaves  behind  her,  and  he  knew  well  that  his 
anger  was  playing  a  comedy  with  him,  as  Beatrix 
had  accused  him  and  the  Queen  of  playing  a  play  in 
the  past  night. 

It  was  hard  that  she  should  not  have  believed 
him  ;  and  yet  when  one  has  seen  and  heard,  it  is 
harder  still  to  believe  against  sight  and  hearing.  If 
she  had  loved  him,  he  said  to  himself,  she  could  not 
have  doubted  him.  He  would  never  have  doubted 
her,  no  matter  what  he  might  have  seen  her  do.  But 
at  this  he  began  to  realize  and  understand  ;  for  in 
order  to  persuade  himself,  he  pictured  her  sitting  as 
the  Queen  had  sat,  and  a  man  bending  over  her  and 
kissing  her  and  calling  her  the  love  of  his  life  and 
heart,  and  he  felt  another  sort  of  anger  rising  fiercely 
in  him,  because  the  imagined  sight  was  vivid  and 
bad  to  see.  Thereupon  he  grew  calmer,  seeing  that 
she  was  not  wholly  wrong,  and  he  began  to  curse  his 
evil  fate  and  to  wish  that  he  had  not  followed  the 
Queen,  but  had  stayed  behind  at  Antioch. 

But  it  was  too  late  now,  for  Antioch  was  gone  in 
the  purple  distance,  and  it  was  towards  evening. 

The  day  dawned  again,  and  darkened,  and  days 
after  that,  while  he  perpetually  blamed  himself  more 
and  more  and  began  to  find  a  fault  in  every  doing  of 
his  life,  and  the  gloom  of  the  northern  temper  settled 
upon  him  and  oppressed  him  heavily,  so  that  his 
companions  wondered  what  had  happened  to  him. 

During  all  that  time  the  Queen  never  showed  her 
self,  but  remained  in  her  cabin  with  the  Lady  Anne, 
who  had  come  with  her  and  would  not  be  denied. 
For  Eleanor  hated  to  see  the  King,  and  she  was 


372  VIA  CBUCIS 

afraid  to  see  Gilbert,  whom  she  knew  to  be  in  the 
ship's  company,  and  she  was  very  sad,  also,  and 
cared  not  for  the  daylight  nor  for  men's  voices.  It 
made  it  worse  that  she  had  tried  to  sacrifice  herself 
for  the  woman  Gilbert  loved,  since  it  had  been  in 
vain,  and  she  had  not  been  believed,  and  since  he  had 
after  all  come  with  her,  she  knew  not  why.  As  for  the 
King,  he  sat  all  day  long  on  the  quarter-deck  under 
an  awning,  telling  beads,  and  praying  fervently  that 
the  presence  of  the  woman  of  Belial  might  not  dis 
tract  his  thoughts  when  he  should  at  last  come  to 
the  holy  places ;  for  before  anything  else  he  con 
sidered  his  own  soul  as  of  great  importance. 

So  they  came  to  Ptolemais,  which  some  called 
Acre,  and  they  rode  a  weary  way  to  Jerusalem,  till 
the  young  King  Baldwin  of  Jerusalem,  the  third  of 
that  name,  came  out  to  meet  them  with  a  very  rich 
train.  Then  Gilbert  lagged  behind,  for  he  had  no 
heart  in  any  rejoicing  or  feasting,  seeing  that  he 
should  not  have  been  there  at  all,  and  had  left 
Beatrix  in  anger.  But  Eleanor  had  come  out  of  the 
ship  to  the  shore,  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and 
serenely  scornful  of  the  King,  since  he  had  not  even 
dared  to  use  the  power  she  had  put  into  his  hands, 
in  order  to  tell  her  his  mind,  and  speak  out  his 
reproaches  ;  and  he  was  more  ridiculous  than  ever  in 
her  eyes.  From  that  time  she  paid  no  more  attention 
to  him  than  if  he  had  not  existed,  for  she  despised  a 
man  who  would  not  use  the  power  he  had. 

As  for  Gilbert,  though  he  was  in  such  melancholy 
mood,  when  he  saw  the  walls  and  towers  of  Jeru 
salem  at  last,  a  hope  of  peace  sprang  up  in  him, 


VIA   CRUCIS 

and  a  certainty  of  satisfaction  not  like  anything  which 
he  had  known  before ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  if 
he  could  but  be  alone  in  the  holy  places  he  should 
find  rest  for  his  soul.  Therefore  he  rode  in  the  rear 
of  the  train,  though  he  was  a  man  of  consequence, 
and  many  young  knights  and  squires  looked  up  to 
him  and  kept  him  company,  so  that  he  could  not 
escape  altogether  to  an  outward  solitude. 

His  eyes  looked  up  before  him,  and  he  saw  the 
holiest  city  in  the  world,  like  a  vision  against  the 
pale  sky,  as  the  day  sank ;  and  his  whole  being  went 
out  to  be  there,  floating  before  him  in  a  prayer 
learnt  long  ago.  Therein,  as  when  he  had  been  a 
child  in  his  English  home,  he  heard  the  voice  of  a 
guardian  angel  praying  with  him  —  praying  for  the 
good  against  the  evil,  for  the  light  against  the  dark 
ness,  for  the  clean  against  the  unclean,  for  the  good 
self  against  the  bad  ;  and  his  heart  made  echoes  in 
heaven. 

He  heard  not  the  sounds  that  came  back  from  the 
royal  train,  the  high  talking  and  glad  laughter;  for 
that  would  have  jarred  on  him  and  set  his  teeth  on 
edge,  and  he  had  shut  the  doors  of  the  body  upon 
himself  to  be  alone  within.  It  mattered  not  that 
young  Baldwin  was  riding  by  the  Queen,  already 
half  in  love,  and  making  soft  speeches  within  sight 
of  the  hill  whereon  Christ  died,  nor  that  he  took  a 
boy's  mischievous  pleasure  in  interrupting  the  King's 
droning  litany,  recited  in  verse  and  response  with 
the  priest  at  his  side  ;  nor  that  some  of  the  knights 
were  chattering  of  what  lodging  they  should  find, 
and  the  young  squires,  in  undertones,  of  black-eyed 


374  VIA  CRUCIS 

Jewish  girls,  and  the  grooms  of  Syrian  wine.  They 
were  as  nothing,  all  these,  as  nothing  but  the  shad 
ows  of  the  world  cast  by  its  own  ancient  evil  at  the 
foot  of  the  Cross,  and  he  only  was  real  and  alive, 
and  the  Cross  only  was  true  and  high  in  the  pure 
light. 

And  in  this  he  was  not  quite  dreaming,  for  the 
train  that  rode  up  from  Acre  was  not  all  of  those 
true  Crusaders  of  whom  many  had  been  with  the 
army,  both  rich  and  poor,  but  of  whom  the  rich  had 
stayed  behind  in  Antioch  and  the  poor  had  perished 
miserably  by  the  swords  of  the  Seljuks  or  by  the 
wiles  of  the  Greeks,  when  they  had  tried  to  come 
on  by  land ;  and  many  of  them  had  been  sold  into 
slavery,  and  not  one  reached  Jerusalem  alive,  out  of 
so  many  thousands.  Of  the  forty  or  fifty  who  were 
first  in  sight  of  the  City,  scarcely  three  were  in  heart 
felt  earnest,  and  they  were  the  Lady  Anne  of  Auch, 
and  Gilbert  Warde,  and  the  King  himself.  But  with 
the  King  all  faith  took  a  material  shape,  which  was 
his  own,  and  the  buying  of  his  own  salvation  had 
turned  his  soul  into  a  place  of  spiritual  usury. 

The  Lady  Anne  was  calm  and  silent,  and  when 
young  Baldwin  spoke  to  her  she  hardly  heard  him, 
and  answered  in  few  words,  little  to  the  point.  She 
had  trusted  that  she  might  never  see  Jerusalem,  for 
she  had  hoped  to  die  of  wound  or  sickness  by  the 
way,  and  so  end  in  heaven,  with  him  she  had  lost, 
the  pilgrimage  begun  on  earth.  For  she  was  a  most 
faithful  woman,  and  of  the  most  faithful  there  is 
often  least  to  tell,  because  they  have  but  one  thought, 
one  hope,  one  prayer.  And  seeing  that  she  had  come 


375 

through  alive,  she  neither  rejoiced  nor  complained, 
knowing  that  there  was  more  to  bear  before  the  end, 
and  trusting  to  bear  it  all  bravely  for  the  dear  sake 
of  her  dead  love.  It  may  be,  also,  that  she  was  the 
most  earnest  of  all  those  who  had  taken  the  Cross, 
because  all  earthly  things  that  had  made  her  life 
happy  had  been  taken  from  her. 

Yet  of  all  men,  Gilbert  Warde  had  fought  best  and 
most,  and  in  so  far  as  bodily  peril  was  counted,  none 
had  lived  through  so  much  as  he;  for  many  of  his 
companions  had  been  killed  beside  him,  and  others 
had  taken  their  place,  and  even  his  man  Dunstan  had 
been  wounded  twice,  and  little  Alric  once,  and  many 
horses  had  been  killed  under  him,  but  he  himself  was 
untouched,  even  after  the  great  battle  in  the  valley; 
and  there  were  honours  for  him  whenever  he  was 
seen.  In  this,  too,  he  was  high-hearted  and  thought 
less  of  himself,  that  when  he  saw  the  Holy  City 
before  him,  he  forgot  the  many  risks  of  life  and 
limb,  and  the  hunger  and  cold  and  weariness  through 
which  he  had  passed,  and  forgot  that  he  had  won 
reward  well  and  fairly,  thinking  only  that  the  peace 
he  felt  came  as  a  gift  from  Heaven. 

That  evening,  when  there  was  a  feast  in  Baldwin's 
palace,  the  Lady  Anne  was  not  there ;  and  when  the 
King  of  France  called  for  the  Guide  of  Aquitaine  to 
present  him  to  the  King  of  Jerusalem,  he  was  not  in 
the  hall  nor  within  the  walls  ;  and  by  and  by  the 
Queen  herself  rose  and  went  out,  leaving  the  two 
Kings  at  table. 

For  Gilbert  had  gone  fasting  to  the  Holy  Sepul 
chre,  with  Dunstan  bearing  his  shield,  and  with  a  man 


376  VIA  CRUCIS 

to  lead  them.  Then  he  went  into  the  vast  churcL 
which  the  crusaders  had  built  to  enclose  all  the  sacred 
ground,  and  little  lights  broke  the  darkness  here  and 
there,  without  dispelling  it,  but  the  poor  Christian  who 
led  Gilbert  had  a  taper  in  his  hand.  The  knight  came 
first  to  the  deep-red  stone  whereon  Nicodemus  and 
Joseph  of  Arimathea  anointed  the  body  of  the  Lord 
for  burial,  and  there  kneeling  down,  he  set  his  shield 
and  sword  before  him  and  prayed  that  he  might  yet 
use  them  well.  Then  the  man  took  him  to  the  Gol 
gotha,  and  he  laid  down  his  arms  before  him  and 
stood  trembling,  as  if  he  were  afraid,  and  the  drops 
of  sweat  stood  out  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  low 
voice  shook  like  a  little  child's  when  he  prayed  in  the 
place  where  God  died  for  man.  Afterwards  he  knelt 
and  touched  the  stones  with  his  face,  and  spread  out 
his  arms  crosswise,  not  knowing  what  he  did.  But 
when  he  had  lain  thus  some  time  he  rose  and  took 
up  his  shield  and  sword,  and  the  man  led  him  farther 
through  the  darkness  to  other  places.  So  at  last 
they  brought  him  to  the  Tomb,  and  he  sent  away  the 
man  who  had  guided  him,  and  bade  Dunstan  go  back 
also  ;  but  he  would  not. 

"  I  also  have  fought  for  the  Cross,  though  I  be  but 
a  churl,"  said  the  dark-faced  man. 

"You  are  no  churl,"  answered  Gilbert,  gravely. 
44  Kneel  beside  me  and  watch." 

"  I  will  watch  with  you,"  said  Dunstan,  and  he 
took  his  own  sword  and  laid  it  next  to  Gilbert's. 

But  he  knelt  one  step  behind  his  master,  on  his 
left  side.  More  than  forty  burning  lamps  hung 
above  the  stone  of  the  Tomb,  and  around  the 


VIA  CRUCIS  377 

stone  itself  stood  a  grating  of  well-wrought  iron 
having  a  wicket  with  a  lock  of  pure  gold. 

Then  Gilbert  raised  his  eyes,  and  looking  through 
the  iron  fence,  he  saw  that  on  the  other  side  some  one 
was  kneeling  also,  and  it  was  the  Lady  Anne  of  Auch, 
robed  all  in  black,  with  a  black  hood  half  thrown  back ; 
but  her  face  was  white,  with  dark  shadows,  and  her 
two  white  hands  clasped  two  of  the  iron  stanchions, 
while  her  sad  eyes  looked  upwards  fixedly,  seeing  a 
vision,  and  not  seeing  men.  Gilbert  was  glad  that 
she  was  there. 

So  they  knelt  an  hour,  and  another  hour,  and  no 
sound  broke  the  stillness,  nor  did  they  feel  any 
weariness  at  all,  for  their  hearts  were  lifted  up,  and 
for  a  time  the  world  fell  away  from  them.  Then  a 
soft  sound  of  footsteps  was  in  the  church,  ceasing 
at  some  distance  from  the  Tomb,  which  was  not  then 
shut  off  within  walls  of  its  own.  But  none  of  the 
three  turned  to  see  who  was  there,  and  there  was 
silence  again. 

Eleanor  had  come  alone  to  the  Sepulchre,  and  stood 
gazing  at  the  three,  not  willing  to  come  nearer. 
As  she  looked,  her  sins  rose  in  her  eyes  and 
passed  before  her,  many  and  great,  and  where  her 
good  deeds  were  hidden  in  her  soul  there  was  dark 
ness,  and  she  despaired  of  forgiveness,  for  she  knew 
her  own  pride,  that  it  could  never  be  broken  in  her. 
She  looked  on  that  most  faithful  woman,  and  on  that 
maiden  knight  whom  she  so  dearly  loved,  siEning 
daily  in  her  heart  for  him,  and  yet  for  his  sake  fight 
ing  her  loving  thoughts  ;  and  she  would  not  have 
dared  to  go  forward  and  kneel  beside  the  pure  in 


878  VIA   CRTJCIS 

heart,  in  the  holy  light.  All  alone  she  drew  back, 
and  when  she  was  so  far  that  they  could  not  have 
seen  her,  had  they  looked,  she  knelt  down  by  a  pillar, 
and  drew  her  dark  veil  over  her  face,  folding  her 
hands  in  the  hope  of  forgiveness  and  peace,  and  in 
great  loneliness. 

Some  comfort  she  found  in  this,  that  for  the  great 
love  of  her  life,  the  like  of  which  she  had  not  known 
nor  was  to  know  again,  though  she  had  wished  evil 
and  dreamed  of  sweetest  sins,  she  had  done  a  little 
good  at  the  last,  and  that  the  man  who  knelt  there 
praying  had  grown  stronger  and  greater  and  of 
higher  honour  by  her  means.  Yet  the  comfort  was 
not  of  much  worth  in  her  loneliness,  since  she  had 
given  him  to  another,  and  none  could  take  his  place. 
Then  she  said  prayers  she  knew,  but  they  had  no 
meaning,  and  she  gazed  from  beneath  her  veil  at  the 
place  where  the  Lord  had  lain  ;  but  she  felt  nothing, 
and  her  heart  was  as  stone,  believing  what  she  saw,  but 
finding  no  light  of  faith  for  her  in  the  divine  beyond. 

At  last  she  rose  softly,  as  she  had  knelt,  and 
leaning,  against  the  pillar,  she  looked  long  at  the 
man  she  loved,  and  at  the  shield  with  the  cross  of 
Aquitaine,  and,  in  it,  at  the  spot  she  had  once  so 
fervently  kissed.  Her  hand  went  to  her  heart,  where 
it  hurt  her,  and  with  the  hurt  came  the  great  pure 
longing  that,  come  what  might  to  herself,  all  might  be 
well  with  him;  and  her  lips  moved  silently,  while  her 
eyes  would  have  given  him  the  world  and  its  glory. 

"  God,  let  me  perish,  but  keep  him  what  he  is  I " 

Shall  any  one  say  that  such  true  prayers  are  not 
heard,  because  they  are  spoken  by  lips  that  have 


VIA  CRUCis  379 

sinned  ?  If  not,  God  is  not  good,  nor  did  Christ  die 
to  save  men. 

The  daughter  of  princes,  the  wife  of  two  kings, 
as  she  was  to  be,  and  the  mother  of  two  kings,  and 
of  many  more  in  line  after  them,  she  drew  down  her 
veil  that  none  might  see  her  face  under  the  dim 
lights,  and  she  went  out  thence,  very  lonely  and 
sad,  into  the  streets  of  Jerusalem. 

At  midnight  came  a  priest  of  the  church  to  trim 
the  lights  at  the  tomb  ;  yet  the  three  did  not  move, 
and  he  prayed  awhile  and  went  away.  But  when 
the  watchmen  cried  the  dawning,  and  their  voices 
came  faintly  in  by  the  doorway,  floating  through 
the  dark  church,  Gilbert  rose  to  his  feet,  and  Dun- 
stan  with  him,  and  they  took  their  arms  with  them, 
and  went  away,  leaving  the  Lady  Anne  the  last  of 
them  all,  her  white  hands  still  clasping  the  iron  bars, 
Aer  sad  black  eyes  still  turned  to  heaven. 

Faint  streaks  were  in  the  eastern  sky,  but  it  was 
still  almost  dark  as  the  two  men  turned  to  the  left 
to  follow  the  way  by  which  they  had  come.  Three 
steps  from  the  door,  Dunstan  stumbled  against 
something  neither  hard  nor  soft,  arid  in  many  fights 
he  had  learned  what  that  thing  was. 

"  There  is  a  dead  man  here,"  he  said,  and  Gilbert 
had  stopped  also. 

They  stooped  down,  trying  to  see,  and  Dunstan 
felt  along  the  body,  touching  the  mantle,  till  he 
found  something  sharp,  which  was  the  point  of  a 
dagger  out  of  its  sheath. 

"He  is  a  knight,"  said  Dunstan,  "for  he  wears 
his  surcoat  and  sword-belt  under  his  mantle." 


380  VIA   CRTJCIS 

But  Gilbert  was  gazing  into  the  face,  trying  to 
see,  while  the  dust  under  the  head  grew  slowly 
grey  in  the  dawn,  and  the  waxen  features  seemed 
to  rise  up  out  of  the  earth  before  him.  But  then  he 
started,  for,  as  he  looked  down,  his  own  eyes  were 
but  a  hand-breadth  from  an  arrow-head  that  stuck 
straight  up  out  of  the  dead  forehead,  and  the  broken 
shaft  with  its  feathers  darkly  soiled  lay  half  under 
the  body.  Dunstan  also  looked,  and  a  low  sound  of 
gladness  came  from  his  fierce  lips. 

"It  is  Arnold  de  Curboil  1 "  exclaimed  Gilbert,  in 
measureless  surprise. 

"And  this  is  Alric's  arrow,"  answered  Dunstan, 
looking  at  the  point,  and  then  handling  the  piece  of 
the  broken  shaft.  "This  is  the  arrow  that  was 
sticking  in  your  cap  on  that  day  when  we  fought  for 
sport  in  Tuscany,  and  Alric  picked  it  up  and  kept 
it.  And  often  in  battle  he  had  but  that  one  left,  and 
would  not  shoot,  saying  that  it  was  only  to  be  shot 
to  save  his  master's  life.  So  now  it  has  done  its 
work,  for  though  the  knight  was  shot  from  behind, 
he  has  his  dagger  in  his  dead  hand  under  his 
cloak,  and  he  must  have  followed  you  to  the  door  of 
the  church  to  kill  you  in  the  dark  within.  Well 
done,  little  Alric  !  " 

Then  Dunstan  spat  in  the  face  of  the  dead  man 
and  cursed  him  ;  but  Gilbert  took  his  man  by  the 
collar  and  pulled  him  aside  roughly. 

"It  is  unmanly  to  insult  the  dead,"  he  said,  in 
disgust. 

But  Dunstan  laughed  savagely. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked.     "  He  was  only  my  father  !  " 


VIA   CRUCIS  381 

Gilbert's  hand  relaxed  and  fell  to  his  side,  then  he 
lifted  it  again  and  laid  it  gently  on  Dunstan's  shoulder. 

"  Poor  Dunstan  !  "  he  said. 

But  Dunstan  smiled  bitterly  and  said  nothing,  for 
he  thought  himself  poor  indeed,  since  if  the  dead 
man  had  given  him  a  tenth  of  his  due,  he  should 
have  had  land  enough  for  a  knight. 

"  We  cannot  leave  him  here,"  said  Gilbert,  at  last. 

"Why  not?     There  are  dogs." 

Dunstan  took  up  his  master's  shield  and  without 
more  waiting  turned  his  back  on  his  father's  body. 
But  Gilbert  stood  where  he  was,  and  gazed  down 
into  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  done  him  so 
much  harm  ;  and  he  remembered  Faringdon  and  the 
swift  stroke  that  had  killed  his  father,  and  Stortf ord 
woods,  where  he  himself  had  lain  for  dead.  He  still 
saw  in  dreams  how  Curboil  snatched  his  dagger  left- 
handed  from  its  sheath,  and  now,  by  strong  associa 
tion,  he  wished  to  see  whether  it  were  still  the  same 
one,  a  masterpiece  of  Eastern  art,  and  he  stooped 
down  in  the  dawn  to  pull  back  the  cloak  and  take 
the  weapon.  It  was  the  same,  fair  and  keen,  with 
the  chiselled  hilt.  He  stuck  it  into  his  own  belt, 
for  a  memory,  for  it  had  once  been  sheathed  in  his 
own  side  ;  then  he  drew  the  cloak  over  the  dead  face 
and  went  his  way,  just  as  the  hushed  city  began  to 
stir,  following  Dunstan  to  his  lodging,  musing  on  the 
strange  chances  of  his  life,  and  glad  that,  since  his 
enemy  was  to  die,  it  had  not  been  his  ill  chance  to 
soil  the  blade  consecrated  to  the  Cross  with  .blood 
so  vile,  and  to  slay  with  his  own  hand  the  father 
of  the  woman  he  loved. 


382  VIA   CKTJCIS 

Now  also,  as  he  thought  calmly,  he  guessed  that 
Beatrix  must  be  in  Jerusalem,  aiid  that  Curboil, 
having  taken  her  from  Antioch,  and  meaning  to  kil] 
his  enemy  before  he  sailed  back  to  England,  had 
brought  his  daughter  with  him,  fearing  lest  she  should 
escape  him  again  and  find  refuge  against  him. 

He  found  little  Alric  sitting  on  the  low  doorstep 
of  the  house  where  he  lodged,  his  stolid  Saxon  face 
pink  and  white  in  the  fresh  dawn,  and  his  thick 
hands  hanging  idly  over  his  knees,  while  the  round 
blue  eyes  stared  at  the  street.  He  got  up  when 
Gilbert  came  near,  and  pulled  off  his  woollen  cap. 

"  Well  done,  Alric,"  said  Gilbert.  "  That  is  the 
second  time  you  have  saved  my  life." 

"  It  was  a  good  arrow,"  answered  Alric,  thought 
fully.  "  I  carried  it  two  years  and  made  it  very 
sharp.  It  is  a  pity  the  man  broke  the  shaft  with 
his  head  when  he  fell,  and  I  would  have  cut  off  the 
steel  point  to  use  it  again,  but  I  heard  footsteps  and 
ran  away,  lest  I  should  be  taken  for  a  thief." 

"  It  was  well  shot,"  said  Gilbert,  and  he  went  in. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IT  had  been  early  dawn  when  they  had  found  Sir 
Arnold  dead;  it  was  toward  evening  when  Gilber4- 
and  Dunstan  followed  a  young  Jew  to  the  door  of 
a  Syrian  house  in  a  garden  of  the  old  quarter  of 
the  city,  toward  the  Zion  gate.  All  day  they 
had  searched  Jerusalem,  up  and  down,  through  the 
narrow  streets  of  whitened  houses,  inquiring  every 
where  for  a  knight  who  had  lately  come  with  his  one 
daughter,  and  no  one  could  tell  them  anything  ;  for 
Sir  Arnold  had  paid  well  to  find  a  retired  house, 
where  Beatrix  might  be  safely  guarded  while  he  went 
out  to  seek  Gilbert  and  kill  him,  and  where  he  himself 
could  hide  if  there  were  any  pursuit.  So  they  asked 
in  vain,  till  at  last  they  saw  a  boy  sitting  by  the  way 
side  on  the  hill  of  the  Temple,  weeping  and  lamenting 
in  the  Eastern  fashion.  The  guide,  who  was  also  a 
Jew,  asked  him  what  had  chanced,  and  he  said  that 
his  father  was  gone  on  a  journey,  leaving  him,  his 
young  son,  in  the  house  with  his  mother.  And  there 
had  come  a  Christian  knignt  with  a  daughter  and 
her  woman  and  certain  servants,  desiring  to  hire  the 
house  for  a  time  because  it  was  in  a  pleasant  place ; 
and  they  had  let  him  have  it,  he  promising  by  an 
interpreter  to  pay  a  great  price ;  but  he  had  not  yet 
paid  it.  In  the  morning  the  young  man  had  seen 
Christians  carrying  away  the  body  of  this  knight  to 

883 


384  VIA  CBUCIS 

bury  it ;  and  he  had  been  to  the  house,  but  the 
knight's  servants  would  not  let  him  in,  and  did  not 
understand  his  speech,  and  threatened  to  beat  him ; 
and  now  he  was  afraid  lest  his  father  should  come 
home  unawares  and  take  him  and  his  mother  to 
account  for  letting  strangers  use  the  house  without 
even  paying  for  it  beforehand. 

When  Gilbert  saw  that  he  had  found  what  he 
sought,  he  first  gave  money  to  the  boy,  to  encourage 
him,  and  bade  the  interpreter  tell  him  to  lead  them 
all  to  the  house,  saying  that  Gilbert  himself  would 
enter,  in  spite  of  the  servants.  The  boy  took  the 
money,  and  when  he  had  measured  Gilbert  with  his 
eye,  he  understood,  and  went  before  them  with  no 
more  weeping ;  and  the  knight's  step  was  light  and 
quick  with  hope,  for  he  had  begun  to  doubt  whether 
Beatrix  were  really  in  the  city  after  all. 

The  house  was  low  and  white,  and  stood  at  the 
end  of  a  small  garden  in  which  there  were  palms, 
and  spring  flowers  growing  in  straight  lines  between 
small  hewn  stones,  laid  so  as  to  leave  little  trenches 
of  earth  between  them.  There  was  a  hard  path, 
newly  swept,  leading  to  the  square  door  of  the  house, 
and  on  the  doorpost  were  clearly  written  certain 
characters  in  Hebrew. 

Gilbert  knocked  on  the  door,  not  loudly,  with  the 
hilt  of  his  dagger,  but  no  one  answered  ;  and 
again  louder,  but  there  was  no  sound  from  within. 
Then  he  shook  the  door,  trying  whether  it  would 
open  of  itself  by  a  push ;  but  it  was  fast,  and  the  two 
windows  of  the  house  that  looked  out  on  each  side 
of  the  door  were  barred  also. 


VIA  CRUCIS  385 

They  think  that  some  great  force  is  with  us,  and 
.ire  afraid,"  said  the  Jewish  boy.  "  Speak  to  them, 
sir,  for  they  do  not  understand  my  tongue." 

And  the  interpreter  explained  what  he  said.  Then 
Gilbert  spoke  in  English,  for  he  supposed  that  Cur- 
boil's  men  must  be  Englishmen,  but  the  Jewish  boy 
knew  that  the  words  should  sound  otherwise. 

"  In  Greek,  sir  !  Speak  to  them  in  Greek,  for 
they  are  all  Greeks.  That  is  why  they  are  afraid. 
All  Greeks  are  afraid." 

The  interpreter  began  to  speak  in  Greek,  clear  and 
loud,  but  no  sound  came.  Yet  when  Gilbert  put  his 
ear  to  the  door  he  thought  that  he  heard  something 
like  a  child's  moaning.  It  had  a  sound  of  pain  in  it, 
and  his  blood  rose  at  the  thought  that  some  weak 
creature  was  being  hurt.  So  he  took  little  Alric's 
leathern  belt,  such  as  grooms  wear,  and  bound  it 
round  his  hand  to  guard  the  flesh,  and  he  struck  the 
door  where  the  leaves  joined  in  the  middle,  once  and 
twice  and  three  times,  and  it  began  to  open  inward, 
so  that  they  could  see  the  iron  bolt  bent  half  double. 
Then  with  his  shoulder  he  forced  it  in,  so  that  the 
bolt  slipped  from  the  socket,  and  the  leaves  flew  open. 

There  was  a  little  court  within,  around  which  the 
house  was  built,  with  a  well  for  rain-water  in  the 
middle,  after  the  fashion  that  was  half  Roman  and 
half  Eastern.  Gilbert  went  in,  and  bade  all  be 
silent  that  he  might  hear  whence  the  moaning  came ; 
for  it  was  more  distinct  now,  and  it  seemed  to  come 
from  the  well,  with  a  little  splashing  of  water ;  so  he 
went  and  looked  down,  and  when,  he  saw  what  was 
there  he  cried  aloud  for  fear. 
10 


386  VIA  CRUCIS 

For  there  he  saw  an  upturned  face,  half  dead,  with 
a  white  thing  bound  across  the  mouth,  and  hands  tied 
together,  and  struggling  tc  strike  the  water,  but  heav 
ily  weighted  ;  and  it  was  the  face  of  Beatrix,  two 
fathoms  below  him.  There  were  holes  opposite  each 
other,  in  the  two  sides  of  the  well,  for  a  man's  hands 
and  feet,  for  climbing  down  into  the  cistern;  and 
Gilbert  lost  nc  moment,  but  began  to  descend  at  once ; 
yet  long  before  he  had  got  the  bound  hands  together 
in  his  own,  stooping  and  himself  in  peril  of  falling, 
the  face  had  sunk  below  the  bubbling  water. 

With  his  feet  firmly  planted  in  the  holes,  and 
standing  as  it  might  be  astride  of  the  well,  he  lifted 
the  girl  up ;  and  though  she  was  so  slight,  it  was  one 
of  the  hardest  things  he  ever  had  to  do,  for  her 
clothes  were  full  of  water,  and  he  was  at  a  disadvan 
tage  ;  nor  could  his  men  help  him  till  he  had  raised 
her  so  high  that  he  could  rest  her  weight  on  his 
right  knee  and  against  his  own  body.  Then  the 
others  climbed  down  and  slipped  their  belts  under 
her  arms,  and  she  was  taken  out  in  safety  and  laid 
upon  the  pavement  of  the  little  court.  And  then 
the  Jewish  boy  went  to  call  his  mother  from  the 
house  of  her  sister,  where  they  two  had  gone  to  live, 
for  Beatrix  had  need  of  a  woman. 

Gilbert  knelt  down  and  laid  her  head  upon  Dun- 
stan's  coat  folded  together,  and  covered  her  with  his 
own  mantle,  gazing  into  the  unconscious  face,  small 
and  pale  and  pitiful,  and  he  remembered  how  he  had 
seen  it  last  in  Antioch,  full  of  anger  and  unbelief,  so 
that  he  had  turned  and  left  what  he  loved  just  when 
evil  was  at  hand ;  and  his  heart  stood  still,  and  then 


VIA  CRUCIS  387 

smote  him  in  his  breast,  and  stood  still  again,  as  the 
smith's  hammer  is  poised  in  the  air  between  the  strokes. 

Beatrix  did  not  move  and  seemed  not  to  breathe, 
lying  as  one  dead,  and  suddenly  Gilbert  believed 
that  there  was  no  life  left  in  her0  He  tried  to  speak 
to  Dunstan,  but  he  could  make  no  sound,  for  his 
tongue  and  his  throat  were  suddenly  parched  and 
paralyzed,  so  that  he  was  dumb  in  his  grief  ;  but  he 
took  the  small  white  hands,  with  the  wrists  all  cut  by 
the  cords,  and  folded  them  upon  the  breast,  and  he 
took  his  cross-hilted  dagger  with  its  sheath,  and  laid 
it  between  the  hands  for  a  cross,  and  gently  tried  to 
close  the  half -opened  eyes. 

Then,  when  Dunstan  saw  wh?,t  his  master  meant, 
he  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  spoke  to  him,, 

"  She  is  not  dead,"  he  said. 

Gilbert  started  and  looked  up  at  him,  and  saw  that 
he  was  in  earnest ;  but  the  man's  lean  face  was  drawn 
with  anxiety. 

"  Sir,"  said  Dunstan,  "  will  you  let  me  touch  the 
Lady  Beatrix  ?  " 

The  knight's  brow  darkened,  for  that  a  churl's 
hands  should  touch  a  high-born  lady's  face  seemed 
to  him  something  monstrous  and  against  nature  ;  but 
in  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  something. 

"  She  is  quite  dead,"  he  tried  to  say. 

Then  Dunstan  spoke  sadly,  kneeling  down  beside 
her. 

"This  lady  is  half  my  sister,"  he  said.  "I  have 
some  skill  with  half-drowned  persons.  Let  me  save 
her,  sir,  unless  we  are  to  let  her  die  before  our  eyes. 
A  gipsy  taught  me  what  to  do." 


388  VIA  CRTJCIS 

The  cloud  passed  from  Gilbert's  face,  but  still  he 
did  not  believe. 

"  In  heaven's  name,  do  what  you  can,  try  what  you 
know,  and  quickly  !  "  he  said. 

"Help  me,  then,"  said  Dunstan. 

So  he  did  as  all  skilled  persons  know  how  to  do 
with  half-drowned  people,  though  only  the  gipsies 
knew  it  then.  They  turned  her  body  gently  so  that 
the  clear  water  ran  from  her  parted  lips,  and  laying  her 
down  again,  they  took  her  arms  and  drew  them  over 
her  head,  stretched  them  out,  and  brought  them  down 
to  her  sides,  again  and  again,  so  as  to  make  her 
breathe,  and  the  breath  was  drawn  in  and  breathed 
out  again  with  a  delicate  foam  that  clung  to  her  lips. 

Still  Sir  Gilbert  did  not  believe,  and  though  he 
helped  his  man,  in  the  despair  of  the  instant,  and  in 
the  horror  of  losing  the  least  chance  of  life,  it  all 
seemed  to  him  a  desecration  of  the  most  dear  dead, 
and  more  than  once  he  would  have  let  the  poor  little 
arm  rest,  rather  than  make  it  limply  follow  the 
motion  Dunstan  gave  to  the  other. 

"  She  is  quite,  quite  dead,"  he  said  again. 

"  She  is  alive,"  answered  Dunstan ;  "  stop  not  now 
one  moment,  or  we  shall  lose  her." 

His  dark  face  glowed,  and  his  unwinking  eyes 
watched  her  face  for  the  least  sign  of  life.  Ten 
minutes,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  passed,  and  time 
seemed  facing  death  —  the  swift  against  the  immov 
able  and  eternal.  Gilbert,  the  strong  and  master 
ful  in  fight,  humbly  and  anxiously  watched  his 
man's  looks  for  the  signs  of  hope,  as  if  Dunstan  had 
been  the  wisest  physician  of  all  mankind ;  and 


VIA  CBUCIS     '  389 

indeed  in  that  day  there  were  few  physicians  who 
knew  how  to  do  what  the  man  was  doing.  And 
at  last  the  glow  in  his  face  began  to  fade,  and  Gil 
bert's  heart  sank,  and  the  horror  of  so  disturbing 
the  dead  came  upon  him  tenfold,  so  that  he  let  the 
slender  arm  rest  on  the  stones,  and  sighed.  But 
Dunstan  cried  out  fiercely  to  him. 

"  For  your  life,  go  on  !  She  is  alive  I  See  I 
See  ! " 

And  even  as  Gilbert  sadly  shook  his  head  in  the 
last  collapse  of  belief,  the  long  lashes  quivered  a 
little  with  the  lids  and  were  still,  and  quivered 
again,  and  then  again,  and  the  eyes  opened  wide 
and  staring,  but  broad  awake;  and  then  the  deli 
cate  body  shook  and  was  half  convulsed  by  the 
miracle  of  life  restored,  and  the  slight  arms  quick 
ened  with  nervous  strength,  resisting  the  men's 
strong  hands,  and  a  choking  cough  brought  the 
bright  colour  to  the  pale  cheeks. 

Then  Gilbert  lifted  her  from  the  pavement  to  the 
stone  rim  of  the  well,  that  she  might  breathe  better, 
and  presently  the  choking  ceased,  so  that  she  lay 
quite  still  with  her  head  against  his  breast,  and  her 
weight  in  his  arms.  But  still  she  did  not  speak, 
and  the  man's  heart  beat  furiously  with  joy,  and 
then  stood  still  in  fear,  lest  the  worst  should  come 
again,  whereof  there  was  no  danger  ;  but  he  did  not 
know,  and  Dunstan  and  Alric  were  suddenly  gone, 
seeking  wine  in  the  house.  Just  when  the  girl 
seemed  to  be  sinking  into  a  swoon  they  brought  a 
short  draught  of  Syrian  wine  in  an  earthen  cup ;  for 
little  Alric  was  not  wise,  but  he  would  have  found 


390  VIA   CKUCIS 

wine  in  the  sandy  desert,  and  he  had  gone  straight  to 
a  corner  where  a  leathern  bottle  with  a  wooden  plug 
was  hung  up  in  a  cool  place. 

Beatrix  drank,  and  revived  again,  and  looked  up 
to  Gilbert. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said  faintly,  and 
she  smiled,  but  Gilbert  could  not  speak. 

By  this  time  the  Jewish  boy  had  brought  his 
mother,  and  they  carried  the  girl  into  a  room,  and  the 
woman  took  care  of  her  kindly,  fearing  lest  a  Chris 
tian  should  die  in  her  husband's  house,  and  also 
lest  she  should  not  be  paid  the  value  of  the  rent, 
but  with  womanly  gentleness  also,  wrapping  her 
in  dry  clothes  of  her  own  before  she  laid  her  to  rest. 

For  Arnold  de  Curboil's  servants  had  been  all 
Greeks,  and  when  they  had  learned  that  their 
master  had  been  killed  in  the  night,  they  had 
bolted  and  barred  the  house,  and  had  bound  Beatrix 
and  her  Norman  tirewoman  hand  and  foot  and 
gagged  their  mouths  with  cloths,  in  order  that  they 
might  carry  off  the  rich  plunder,  but  at  first  they 
had  not  meant  to  kill  the  women.  Only  when  they 
were  just  about  to  slip  away,  one  at  a  time,  so  as  to 
escape  notice,  they  held  a  council,  and  the  most  of 
them  said  that  it  would  be  better  to  throw  the 
women  into  the  well,  lest  either  of  them  should  help 
the  other,  and  getting  loose,  escape  from  the  house 
and  cause  a  pursuit.  So  they  threw  the  Norman 
woman  down  first,  and  when  they  saw  that  she  sank 
the  third  time,  being  drowned,  they  threw  Beatrix 
after  her.  But  the  well  was  not  so  deep  as  they 
had  thought,  and  was  narrow,  so  that  Beatrix  had 


VIA   CRUCIS  391 

kept  her  head  above  the  water  a  long  time,  her  feet 
just  touching  the  body  of  her  drowned  servant. 
And  in  this  way  the  faithful  woman  had  saved  her 
mistress  after  she  was  dead.  When  this  was  known, 
they  took  her  from  the  well  and  bore  her  to  burial 
without  the  city,  while  Beatrix  was  asleep. 

That  night  Gilbert  and  Dunstan  lay  on  their  cloaks 
within  the  half-broken  door  of  the  house,  which  could 
not  be  bolted,  for  they  were  tired,  having  watched 
by  the  Sepulchre  all  the  night  before  that ;  and  little 
Alric  kept  watch  in  the  courtyard,  walking  up  and 
down  lest  he  should  sleep,  for  the  Syrian  wine  might 
have  made  him  drowsy,  and  he  had  the  whole  bottle 
to  himself.  But  he  drank  slowly  and  thoughtfully, 
and  when  he  felt  that  his  head  was  not  clear,  he 
let  the  wine  alone,  and  walked  up  and  down  a  long 
time  talking  to  himself  and  warning  himself  to 
keep  sober.  This  being  accomplished,  he  swallowed 
another  draught,  wisely  sipping  it  by  half  mouthfuls, 
and  then  walked  again  ;  and  so  all  night,  and  in  the 
dawn  he  was  as  fresh  and  rosy  and  sober  as  ever,  but 
the  big  leathern  bottle  lay  quite  flat  and  disconsolate 
on  the  pavement ;  for  he  came  of  the  old  English 
archers,  who  were  good  men  at  a  bowl,  and  steady  on 
their  legs. 

In  the  morning  Gilbert  awoke  and  sat  up,  on  the 
pavement,  and  as  Alric  came  near  he  made  a  sign  that 
he  should  not  wake  Dunstan,  but  let  him  rest.  He 
looked  at  the  sleeper's  face,  and  thought  how  much 
this  servant  of  his  had  suffered,  being  quite  half  as 
gentle  by  birth  as  he  himself ;  and  he  remembered 
how  the  man  had  fought  ever  bravely,  and  had  shed 


392  VIA  CRUCIS 

his  blood,  and  had  never  taken  gifts  of  money  irom 
his  master,  save  for  great  necessity,  and  had  asked 
for  a  sword  rather  than  for  a  tunic  when  he  had 
raised  the  riot  to  save  Beatrix  and  the  Queen  in 
Nicsea;  and  Gilbert  was  ashamed  that  such  a  man, 
who  was  in  truth  the  eldest  born  of  a  great  house, 
should  be  a  starving  servant.  So  when  Dunstan 
opened  his  eyes  and  started  up  at  seeing  his  master 
awake,  Gilbert  spoke  to  him. 

"You  have  fought  with  me,"  he  said,  "you  have 
endured  with  me,  we  have  fasted  together  on  the 
march,  and  we  have  drunk  of  the  same  spring  in 
battle  while  the  arrows  fell  about  us,  and  now,  God 
willing,  we  are  to  be  brothers,  when  I  wed  the  Lady 
Beatrix,  and  but  for  you  I  should  be  mourning  by 
her  grave  to-day.  It  is  not  meet  that  we  should  be 
any  longer  master  and  man,  for  you  have  gentle 
blood  in  you,  of  a  great  house." 

"  Sir  Gilbert,"  murmured  Dunstan,  flushing  darkly, 
"  you  are  very  kind  to  me,  but  I  will  not  have  gentle 
hood  of  a  father  who  was  a  murderer  and  a  thief." 

"  You  prove  yourself  gentle  by  that  speech,"  an 
swered  Gilbert.  "Had  he  no  other  blood  to  give 
you  than  his  own?  Then  the  Lady  Beatrix  is  also 
the  daughter  of  a  thief  and  a  murderer." 

"  And  of  a  lady  of  great  lineage.  That  is  differ 
ent.  I  am  no  peer  of  my  lady  sister.  But  if  so  be 
that  I  may  have  a  name,  and  be  called  gentle,  then, 
sir,  I  pray  you,  beg  of  our  sovereign  in  England  that 
I  may  be  called  by  a  new  name  of  my  own,  that  my 
ill  birth  may  be  forgotten." 

"  And  so  I  will,"  said  Gilbert,  "  for  it  is  better  thus." 


VIA  CRUCIS  393 

Afterwards  he  kept  his  word,  and  when  she  had 
her  own  again,  Beatrix  gave  him  a  third  share  of  her 
broad  lands,  to  hold  in  fief  to  Gilbert  Warde,  though 
he  had  no  rightful  claim ;  and  because  he  had  saved 
her  life,  he  was  called  Dunstan  Le  Sauveur,  because 
he  had  saved  her  and  many;  and  he  had  favour  of 
King  Henry  and  fought  bravely,  and  was  made  a 
knight,  and  raised  up  an  honourable  race. 

But  on  that  morning  in  Jerusalem,  in  the  little 
court,  Beatrix  came  out,  still  weak  and  weary,  and 
sat  beside  Gilbert  in  the  shade  of  the  wall,  with  her 
hand  between  his,  and  the  light  in  her  face. 

"  Gilbert,"  she  said,  when  she  had  told  him  what 
had  happened  to  her  until  then,  "  when  I  was  angry 
and  unbelieving  in  the  Queen's  chamber  in  Antioch, 
why  did  you  turn  and  leave  me,  seeing  that  I  was  in 
the  wrong  ?  " 

"  I  was  angry,  too,"  he  answered  simply. 

But  womanlike,  she  answered  him  again. 

"That  was  foolish.  You  should  have  taken  me 
roughly  in  your  arms  and  kissed  me,  as  you  did  by 
the  river  long  ago.  Then  I  should  have  believed 
you,  as  I  do  now." 

"  But  you  would  not  believe  my  words,  nor  the 
Queen's,"  he  said,  "nor  even  when  she  gave  herself 
up  to  the  King,  to  prove  herself  true,  would  you 
believe  her." 

"  If  men  only  knew  !  "  Beatrix  laughed  softly  her 
little  bird  laugh  that  had  the  music  of  a  spring 
day. 

"  If  men  knew  —  what  ?  " 

"  If  men  knew  —  "    She  paused,  and  blushed,  and 


394  VIA  CRUCIS 

laughed  again.  "If  men  knew  how  women  love 
sweet  words  when  they  are  happy,  and  sharp  deeds 
when  they  are  angry  !  That  is  what  I  mean.  I 
would  have  given  my  blood  and  the  Queen's  king 
dom  for  a  kiss  when  you  left  me  standing  there." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  !  "  exclaimed  Gilbert,  happy 
but  half  perplexed. 

"  You  ought  to  have  known,"  answered  the  girl. 

Her  eyebrows  were  raised  a  little  with  the  half- 
pathetic  look  he  loved,  while  her  mouth  smiled. 

"  I  shall  never  understand,"  he  said,  but  he  began 
to  laugh  too. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  never 
be  angry  with  you  again  —  never  !  Do  you  believe 
me,  Gilbert?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  answered,  having  nothing 
else  to  say. 

"  Very  well.     But  if  I  ever  should  be  —  " 

"  But  you  just  said  that  you  never  would  be  !  " 

"  I  know  ;  but  if  I  should  —  just  once  —  then 
take  me  in  your  arms,  and  say  nothing,  but  kiss  me 
as  you  did  that  day  by  the  river." 

"  I  understand,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  angry  now  ?  " 
But  he  was  laughing. 

"Almost,"  she  answered,  glancing  sideways  in  a 
smile. 

"  Not  quite  ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite !  "  And  her  eyes  darkened  under  the 
drooping  lids. 

Then  he  held  her  so  close  to  him  that  she  was 
half  breathless,  and  kissed  her  till  it  hurt,  and  she 
turned  pale  again,  and  her  eyes  were  closed. 


THE  WAY   OF  THE   CROSS 


VIA  CKUCIS  395 

«*  You  see,"  she  said  very  faintly,  "  I  believe  you 
now  !  " 

Here  ends  the  story  of  Gilbert  Warde's  crusading  ; 
for  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  Via  Crucis  in  the 
Holy  City,  and  had  at  last  found  peace  for  his  soul, 
and  light  and  rest  for  his  heart,  after  many  troubles 
and  temptations,  and  after  much  brave  fighting  for 
the  good  cause  of  the  Faith  against  unbelievers. 

After  that  he  fought  again  with  the  army  at 
Damascus,  and  saw  how  the  princes  betrayed  one 
another,  when  the  Emperor  Conrad  had  come  again, 
so  that  the  siege  of  the  strong  town  came  to  naught, 
and  the  armies  were  scattered  among  the  rich  gar 
dens  to  gather  fruit  and  drink  strong  wine,  while 
their  leaders  wrangled.  Also  at  Ascalon  he  drew 
sword  again,  and  again  he  saw  failure  hanging  over  all, 
like  an  evil  shadow,  and  chilling  the  courage  in  men, 
so  that  there  was  murmuring,  and  clamouring  for 
the  homeward  path.  There  he  saw  how  the  great 
armies  went  to  ruin  and  fell  to  pieces,  because,  as 
the  holy  Bernard  had  known,  there  was  not  the 
faith  of  other  days,  and  also  because  there  was  no 
great  leader,  as  Eleanor  had  told  the  abbot  himself 
at  Vezelay ;  and  it  was  a  sad  sight,  and  one  to  sicken 
the  souls  of  good  men. 

But  though  he  fought  with  all  his  might  when 
swords  were  out,  there  was  no  sadness  in  him  for  all 
these  things,  for  life  and  hope  were  bright  before 
him.  Little  by  little,  too,  he  had  heard  how  all  the 
poor  pilgrims  left  at  Attalia  had  perished;  but  he 
knew  that  if  he  had  led  them,  Beatrix  would  have 


396  VIA  CRUCIS 

died  there  in  the  court  of  the  little  house  in  Jerusa 
lem,  and  he  held  her  life  more  dear  than  the  lives  of 
many,  whom  his  own  could  hardly  have  saved. 

Moreover,  and  last  of  all,  he  had  learned  and 
understood  that  the  cause  of  God  lies  not  buried 
among  stones  in  any  city,  not  even  in  the  most  holy 
city  of  all ;  for  the  place  of  Christ's  suffering  is  in 
men's  sinful  hearts,  and  the  glory  of  his  resurrec 
tion  is  the  saving  of  a  soul  from  death  to  everlast 
ing  life,  in  refreshment  and  light  and  peace. 


WRITINGS  OF  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD 


i2mo.    Cloth 


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Casa  Braccio.    Two  Vols.    Price,  $2.00. 

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Don  Orsino.    Price,  $1.00. 

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An  American  Politician.    Pries,  $1.00. 

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Price,  $2.00. 


CORLEONE 

A  TALE  OF  SICILY 

The  last  of  the  famous  Saracinesca  Seriet 

"  It  is  by  far  the  most  stirring  and  dramatic  of  all  the  author's  Italian  stories.  ... 
The  plot  is  a  masterly  one,  bringing  at  almost  every  page  a  fresh  surprise,  keeping 
the  reader  in  suspense  to  the  very  end."  —  The  Times,  New  York. 

A  ROSE  OF  YESTERDAY 

"  Don't  miss  reading  Marion  Crawford's  new  novel, '  A  Rose  of  Yesterday.*  It  b 
brief,  but  beautiful  and  stiong.  It  is  as  charming  a  piece  of  pure  idealism  as  ever 
came  from  Mr.  Crawford's  pen."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

MR.  ISAACS 

"  It  is  lofty  and  uplifting.  It  is  strongly,  sweetly,  tenderly  written.  It  U  in  aO 
respects  an  uncommon  novel." —  The  Literary  World, 

DR.  CLAUDIUS 

"The  characters  are  strongly  marked  without  any  suspicion  of  caricature,  and  the 
author's  ideas  on  social  and  politic?!  subjects  are  often  brilliant  and  always  striking. 
It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  there  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  book,  which  is  peculiarly 
adapted  for  the  recreation  of  the  student  or  thinker.'  — Living  Church. 

A  ROMAN  SINGER 

"  A  powerful  story  of  art  and  love  in  Rome." —  The  New  York  Observer. 

AN  AMERICAN  POLITICIAN 

**  One  of  the  characters  is  a  visiting  Englishman.  Possibly  Mr.  Crawford's  long 
residence  abroad  has  made  him  select  such  a  hero  as  a  safeguard  against  slips, 
which  does  not  seem  to  have  been  needed.  His  insight  into  a  phase  of  politics  with 
which  he  could  hardly  be  expected  to  be  familiar  is  remarkable.  —  Buffalo  Express. 

TO  LEEWARD 

"  It  is  an  admirable  tale  of  Italian  life  told  in  a  spirited  way  and  far  better  than 
most  of  the  fiction  current."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

ZOROASTER 

"  As  a  matter  of  literary  art  solely,  we  doubt  if  Mr.  Crawford  has  ever  before  given 
Us  better  work  than  the  description  of  Belshazzar's  feast  with  which  the  story  begins, 
or  the  death-scene  with  which  it  closes."  —  The  Christian  Union  (now  The  Outlook). 


Ave  Roma   Irnmortalis 

STUDIES  FROM  THE  CHRONICLES  OF  ROME 

BY 

FRANCIS  MARION  CRAWFORD 

In  two  Volumes.    Fully  Illustrated  with  Photogravures 

and  Drawings  in  the  Text.    Cloth.    Crown 

8vo.    Price  $6.00  net 

Dr.  S.    WEIR  MITCHELL  wHtes: 

*  I  have  not  for  a  long  while  read  a  book  which  pleased  me  more 
than  Mr.  Crawford's  '  Roma.'  It  is  cast  in  a  form  so  original  and  so 
available  that  it  must  surely  take  the  place  of  all  other  books  about 
Rome  which  are  needed  to  help  one  to  understand  its  story  and  its 
archaeology.  .  .  .  The  book  has  for  me  a  rare  interest." 

NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE 

"  Mr.  Crawford  knows  his  Rome  thoroughly,  and,  furthermore,  it  h 
perhaps  just  because  of  his  profession  that  he  has  succeeded  where  so 
many  have  failed.  The  history  of  Rome  is  packed  with  romance. 
What  more  fitting  than  that,  for  the  purpose  of  the  general  reader,  it 
should  be  retold  by  a  man  with  inborn  sympathy  for  the  human  side 
of  history,  and  an  equally  instructive  narrative  gift." 

HAMILTON   W.   MABIE 

"  With  a  rapid  hand,  and  in  a  series  of  vigorous  strokes,  Mr.  Crawford 
makes  us  see  the  'City  of  the  Hills'  seven  centuries  before  Christ;  he 
recalls  the  Rome  of  the  great  age  of  conquests;  of  the  Empire;  of 
those  years  when  the  fires  of  life  were  dying;  of  the  age  of  the  bar 
barians;  of  the  middle  age;  of  the  Renaissance;  and  of  the  modern 
time.  The  history  of  Rome  is  essentially  a  story,  and  Mr.  Crawford't 
gift  as  a  story-teller  is  a  grand  qualification  for  this  work." 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH 

*  It  Is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this  brief  and  vivid  story. 
It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human  sympathy,  as  well  as  thoroughly  artistic11 

—  The  Critit. 
MARZIO'S   CRUCIFIX 

**  We  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  this  work  belongs  to  the  highest  department 
4f  character  painting  in  words." —  Tfie  Churchman, 

PAUL  PATOFF 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely  written,  poc- 
•raving  sharply  individual  characters  in  well-defined  surroundings." 

—  New  York  Commercial  Advertiter. 

PIETRO  GHISLERI 

"The  strength  of  the  story  lies  not  only  in  the  artistic  and  highly  dramatic 
working  out  of  the  plot,  but  also  in  the  penetrating  analysis  and  understanding 
of  the  impulsive  and  passionate  Italian  character."  —  Public  Opinion. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  KING 

"  One  of  the  most  artistic  and  exquisitely  finished  pieces  of  work  that  Crawford 
has  produced.  The  picturesque  setting,  Calabria  and  its  surroundings,  the  beautiful 
Sorrento  and  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  with  the  bewitching  accessoiies  that  climate,  sea, 
and  sky  afford,  give  Mr.  Crawford  rich  opportunities  to  show  his  rare  descriptive 
powers.  As  a  whole  the  book  is  strong  and  beautiful  through  its  simplicity." 

— Public  Opinion. 
MARION  DARCHE 

**  We  are  disposed  to  rank  '  Marion  Darche '  as  the  best  of  Mr.  Crawford's  Ameri 
can  stories."  —  The  Literary  World. 

KATHERINE  LAUDERDALE 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  _said  that  the  story  is  skilfully  and  picturesquely  written 
Dortiaying  sharply  individual  characters  in  well-defined  surroundings." 

—  New  York  Commercial  Adv ertittv, 

THE  RALSTONS 

**  Tbe  whole  group  of  character  studies  is  strong  and  vivid." 

-The Literary  World. 

LOVE  IN  IDLENESS 

"  The  story  fa  told  in  the  author's  lightest  vein;  it  is  bright  and  entertaining." 

—  The  Literary  World. 

CASA  BRACCIO 

•*  We  are  grateful  when  Mr.  Crawford  keeps  to  his  Italy._  The  poetry  and  enchant- 
rnert  of  the  land  are  all  his  o\yn,  and  '  Casa  Braccio '  gives  promise  of  being  his 
masterpiece.  ...  He  has  the  life,  the  beauty,  the  heart,  and  the  soul  of  Italy  at  the 
tips  of  his  fingers."  —  Los  A  ngeles  Express. 

ADAM  JOHNSTONE'S   SON 

"  Every  page  of  the  narrative  interests  the  reader,  and  the  gradual  seps,ratiov.  of 
the  tangled  threads  is  skilfully  managed."  —  Hartford  Post. 

"  It  is  not  only  one  of  the  most  enjoyable  novels  that  Mr.  Crawford  has  evet 
written,  but  is  a  novel  that  will  make  people  think."  — Boston  Beacon. 

TAQUISARA 

'  A  charming  story  this  is,  and  one  which  will  certainly  be  ukrC  by  «4  «imirew 
of  Mr.  Crawford's  work,"  —  Ntin  York  Herald, 


SARACINESCA 

"  The  worV  has  two  distinct  merits,  either  of  which  would  serve  to  make  tt  great- 


SANT'   ILARIO 
A  SEQUEL  TO  SARACINESCA 

••  A  singularly  powerful  and  beautiful  story.  ...  It  fulfils  every  requirement  ol 
artistic  fiction.  It  brings  out  what  is  mos'.  impressive  in  human  action,  without 
cwing  any  of  its  effectiveness  to  sensationalism  or  artifice.  It  is  natural,  fluent  in 
evolution,  accordant  with  experience,  graphic  in  description,  penetrating  in  analysis, 
and  absorbing  in  interest." —  The  New  York  Tribune. 

DON  ORSINO 
A  SEQUEL  TO  SARACINESCA  AND  SANT  ILARIO 

*  Offers  exceptional  enjoyment  in  many  ways,  in  the  fascinating  absorption  of  good 
fiction,  in  the  interest  of  faithful  historic  accuracy,  and  in  charm  of  style.  The  *  New 
Italy"  is  strikingly  revealed  in  '  Don  Orsino.'  "  —  Boston  Budget. 

WITH  THE  IMMORTALS 

**  The  strange  centra!  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only  to  a  writer  whose 
mind  was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  of  modern  thought  and  progress,  while  its 
execution,  the  setting  it  forth  in  proper  literary  clothing,  could  be  successfully 
attempted  only  by  one  whose  active  literary  ability  should  be  fully  equalled  by  his 
power  of  assimilative  knowledge  both  literary  and  scientific,  and  no  less  by  his 
courage,  and  so  have  a  fascination  entirely  new  for  the  habitual  reader  of  novels. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded  in  taking  his  readers  quite  above  the  ordinary 
plane  of  novel  intsrest." —  The  Boston  Advertiser. 

GREIFENSTEIN 

** .  .  .  Another  notable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  day.  Like  all  Mr. 
Crawford's  work,  this  novel  is  crisp,  clear,  and  vigorous,  and  will  be  read  with  • 
great  deal  of  interest."  —  New  York  Evening  Telegram. 

A  CIGARETTE-MAKER'S  ROMANCE 

"  It  is  a  touching  romance,  filled  with  scenes  of  great  dramatic  power." 

—  Boston  Commercial  BuKetfm. 

KHALED 

"It  abounds  in  stirring  incidents  and  barbaric  picturesqueness;  and  the  lore 
struggle  of  the  unloved  Khaled  is  manly  in  its  simplicity  and  noble  in  its  ending." 

—  The  Mail  and  Exfrett. 

THE  WITCH  OF  PRAGUE 

"  The  artistic  skill  with  which  this  extraordinary  story  is  constructed  and  carried 
out  is  admirable  and  delightful.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crawford  has  scored  a  decided  triumph, 
for  the  interest  of  the  tale  is  sustained  throughout.  ...  A  very  remarkable,  power 
ful,  and  interesting  story."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

THE  THREE  FATES 

**  The  strength  of  the  story  lies  in  portrayal  of  the  aspirations,  disciplinary  efforts, 
trials,  and  triumphs  of  the  man  who  is  a  born  writer,  and  who  by  long  and  painful 
experiences  learns  the  good  that  is  in  him  and  the  way  in  which  to  give  it  effectual 
expression.  Taken  for  all  in  all  it  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of  all  nis  productions 
in  fiction,  and  it  affords  a  view  of  certain  phases  of  American,  or  perhaps  we  should 
say  of  New  York,  life  that  have  not  hitherto  been  treated  with  anything  like  the  same 
adequacy  and  felicity."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


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lit 55  T/ia  c  rue  is 


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